


of the nature of the wound

by decinq



Series: the messes of men [1]
Category: Check Please! (Webcomic), Hockey RPF
Genre: Closeted Character, Jack Knew First, M/M, athletics and mental health, media relations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-04-04 07:16:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4129419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/decinq/pseuds/decinq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His first year in the NHL isn't easy, but Jack has spent his entire life playing through the hurt.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prologue: loss of the homeplace and the defilement of the beloved

**Author's Note:**

> thank you to all my wonderful friends, many of whom beta'd/inspired/helped with this and many of whom listen to me run my mouth about these ridiculous boys. special note of gratitude to defcontwo, because the work put into this was not mine alone. and thank you (more than anything) to ngozi for creating this world that now holds my entire heart. 
> 
> if you got here by googling your name or the name of someone you know, please close this.
> 
> warnings for discussions of mental health and related themes. i tried to stay away from internalized homophobia as much as i was able, but you should note that there is bro-culture and related themes in this story (more so in the second chapter) and you should be wary if that will squick you. please feel free to reach out to me on tumblr or twitter if you have any questions or concerns. 
> 
> all mistakes are my own, this is a work of fiction, etcetera etcetera.
> 
> [here are the songs](http://8tracks.com/tiny-dakota/of-the-nature-of-the-wound), because there are always songs
> 
> ( **edit** : this was written before 6/8/15 and features the minor appearance of patrick kane. he's been removed from the tags and he only has a few lines of dialogue, but i didn't want to take the story down entirely. he won't be making any appearances in any future instalments. he and j toews are in a scene in the second chapter, but you can probably get through the story and understand everything by scrolling past it. i'm sorry for any discomfort this causes. feel free to reach out to me if you have questions or concerns.)

#  _i: down to the good bones_

 

It hits him on a Tuesday afternoon, when he’s tucked into an alcove in the History building with a smoothie and his Cold War seminar readings: He doesn’t want it to be over.

 

Jack’s dream, since he can remember, has been to play for the NHL.

 

He’s worked really hard to get to where he is.

 

There’s so much he hasn’t finished.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“How’s your thesis going?” Shitty asks Jack, leaning against the door jamb.

 

Jack has flour all over his face, and Bittle is laughing low in his chest and Jack feels warm all over, despite the February chill.

 

“Good, I’m basically done,” he says, flashing Shitty the quickest smile before turning back to the lattice he’s trying to help Bitty with.

 

Shitty throws himself into a chair at the table, and says, “What the fuck, how?”

 

“I… I do a little bit every day?”

 

Shitty slams his head down on the table, and groans. “That’s not--that’s not real.”

 

Jack laughs and Shitty groans again. Bittle is typing into his phone, and Jack lets him send the text before swiping the phone from his hands. When Bittle makes a small sound of protest, Jack says, “Nope. We’re doing this now, and then we’re doing research for our term papers.”

 

“You are such a square,” Shitty says, face still smashed into the table top.

 

“Then I’ll buy us Italian for dinner,” Jack says to Bittle. He points over his shoulder, and without looking in Shitty’s direction, says, “He’s not invited.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Ransom finds him sitting on the porch, his tea placed off to the side, stream rising into the cold evening air.

 

“Sup man?” he says, and sits next to Jack.

 

“Nothing,” he says, and waves in front of him, not knowing quite what he means by it. “Trying to soak it all in.”

 

Rans nods and says, “I get that,” like the good dude that Jack’s always known him to be. “You okay?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I just--it sounds stupid, but I don’t want to forget anything.”

 

“Must be strange,” Ransom says. “That this shit show is the most normal thing that’s ever happened to you.”

 

“Hmm,” Jack says. “I never thought of it that way.” He gets Ransom into a headlock and nuggies him. “You weirdos never made a single moment feel normal.”

 

Ransom hits the side of Jack’s head, and breaks free from Jack’s arm.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The thing is, his time at Samwell is the most normal thing he’s ever experienced.

 

His entire life had, up until he overdosed, always been about hockey.

 

He never went to a normal high school, never went to prom.

 

His friends, growing up, were either just kids of other Habs’ players or kids that lived a few houses down. Even then, he outgrew playdates fairly early. When he started playing hockey, most of the kids on the team made friends with the other players, but Jack had been on four different teams per season by the time he was eleven.

 

It was always going to be hockey, for him.

 

He knows he’s more like his father than he likes to admit, but his time at Samwell...it’s not something he thought he would ever be able to have.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Bittle was in his freshman year, Jack knew Bitty was too good for him.

 

Bitty, who is still the kindest person Jack has ever met; who wants to help everyone as much as he is able; who will empty himself over and over until he has nothing left to give anyone if it means the people he cares about will be okay. Bittle is funny, and he smells like cinnamon and butter and everything that reminds Jack of home, for all that his mom was never that much of a baker. Bittle, who is the fastest skater Jack has maybe ever seen; who has a protective streak a mile wide; who always does the dishes and offers to wash Jack’s laundry with his own to save water.

 

Jack thinks about all the small ways that Bittle has woven his life into Jack’s, a complicated lattice crust of nearly two years spent in a run down frat house that honestly used to smell a lot worse.

 

He knows what this is, what’s going on between them. He can feel his cheeks turn pink and his lips turn upward any time Bitty is anywhere near him. Bitty’s gentle hands and big smile and soft southern lilt have nestled their way into the warmest part of Jack’s heart, and Jack will never deserve him.

  
  
  


Jack, for all that he knows it’s bad for him, has always deserved someone more like Parse. Logically, he knows that that part of his life is over, that he’ll never be in a spot where it would be a good idea. He’s worked hard to get a handle on his anxiety, and it isn’t always easy, but it’s always easier without Kent around.

 

He knows what that means.

 

Still, Kent has seen all the roughest edges of Jack. He was able to meet Jack, palms grazed and knees bloody, every gritty step of the way.

 

And maybe that says more about Jack and his relationship with Normal than anything else: that the only person who could get under his skin is the person that stops anyone else from getting in anywhere--that the only kind of person Jack will ever deserve is someone who can look him in the eye, and meet him at the gates of Hell, blood in their teeth and fire on their breath.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Shitty wakes Jack up at 3 in the morning to tell him he finished his thesis by kissing Jack on the cheek, sloppy and warm and, frankly, a little bit disgusting.

 

He knocks Shitty off of him, and says, “Are you drunk?” He clears his throat and wipes at his eyes.

 

“A bit,” Shitty says. “Bits wouldn’t shotgun beers with me, so I came to find you instead. I finished my thesis.”

 

“Good for you,” Jack says, meaning it even as he rolls over to persuade Shitty to get the fuck out of his bed.

 

“Jack, c’mon bro. It’s time for the good stuff now.”

 

“I’m sleeping.”

 

“You’re very much awake, my sweet Canadian son. You’re even having a conversation.”

 

“I’m older than you,” Jack says, eyes still closed.

 

“And yet, I somehow have so much to teach you.”

 

“Dude,” Jack says, and it nearly sounds like a whine. “Please. Tomorrow. I’ll do whatever you want tomorrow.”

 

“We only have so many of those left,” Shitty says, suddenly quiet. “Fine. Sleep, recharge your robot batteries or whatever.”

 

Shitty is almost at the door when Jack says, “Software updates,” before he falls back asleep to the sound of Shitty’s retreating laughter.

  
  
  
  
  
  


They’re between playoff rounds, and Jack’s honestly exhausted, tired in his bones in a way he can’t remember ever feeling. They’re going to be fine, he knows. They’ve all worked hard, the season has been amazing, and Jack’s been proud to play with the boys in this last stretch.

 

It’s getting late, the sun still in the sky, but only barely. He rinses off his dinner plate and leaves it drying in the rack on the counter, and gets a six-pack from the fridge before making his way to his room, and sliding open the window to climb out onto the roof.

 

He pulls the comforter off his bed, and pulls that out onto the roof too, and it takes him an embarrassing amount of time to settle, lean back against the peeling side of the Haus, and notice Bittle sitting ten feet away. He’s got his legs pulled in close, his chin resting on his knee, and he’s turned towards Jack, a fond smile on his face.

 

“You were in your own little world there, huh?” Bittle asks, and Jack feels his smile spread wide.

 

“Guess so,” he says. “To be fair, you are very small and very quiet.”

 

Bitty rolls his eyes. “I’m a normal size. Just because you’re a giant does not mean--”

 

“Come over here,” Jack says, and he lifts his comforter up to gesture for Bitty to join him. “Be careful.”

 

Bitty shuffles across the shingles until he’s next to Jack, settles before Jack drops the comforter back over their legs. They sit in silence for a few minutes, and Jack gets caught up in the way the sun starts to set, the way he can hear laughter from a few blocks over. Bitty’s leg is pressed all along Jack’s thigh, and when Bittle flexes his ankles, Jack feels the left one pop softly next to his.

 

“I brought beer up, if you want.”

 

“We’ve got a busy weekend though,” Bittle says, almost shy.

 

Jack shrugs a bit, says, “It’s not like I brought a keg up here, Bittle.”

 

Jack feels Bitty huff a breath more than he hears it, and then Bitty says, “Yeah okay, sure.”

 

Jack pops the can out of the plastic ring, and hands it over. He watches Bittle tap the top of it a few times, then pull the tab. He raises it up in front of him a bit, and turns to look at Jack. “Well?” he says, and Jack shakes his head, gets with the program and opens one for himself. He knocks his can to Bitty’s, and Bitty says, “Cheers,” before tilting his head back to take a long pull.

  
  
  


They sit leaning back against the Haus until the sun goes down; it’s a nice night with clear sky and plenty of stars. There’s a bit of a breeze, but it’s still warmer than it’s been all year, and Jack has a bit of a buzz going.

 

They’re sharing the last beer of the six-pack, have been passing it back and forth since Bittle convinced Jack that they ought to share, seeing as Jack needs a bit more drink to feel it in his blood, and he’d kicked the first one back faster than Bitty anyway. Bitty has pulled Jack’s comforter up so that it’s up around his shoulders instead of folded over in his lap.

 

Jack is holding the beer in his left hand, and he should pass it to Bitty, fair is fair, but his right hand somehow found its way under the blanket and is pressed in between their legs. Bitty is leaning into his shoulder, but not enough for Jack to be sure that it’s anything. Bitty touches everyone all the time, is nice to everyone all the time. And, besides, Jack wouldn’t--

 

He didn’t bring beer up here with any intentions other than relaxing.

 

But still, his pinky is pressed into the outer seam of Bittle’s jeans, and it would be so easy.

 

Bitty’s been talking about how he still hasn’t started writing his term paper for his American Studies class, even though he knows he really needs to get a move on, and soon.

 

“I know I need to do it, and I mean to. I come home instead of hanging with the frogs or whatever, and I mean to work on it, really, but then I just...don’t.”

 

Jack nods, because he knows what it feels like. Just because he was on top of getting his thesis done doesn’t mean that he’s always been that way. “It’s hard. When you’re stressed sometimes it’s easier to do none of the things that are stressing you out, even if you know it’ll make it worse.”

 

“Exactly!” Bitty says, and he sighs a bit, and Jack feels his ribs expand and retract with the deep breath. “I’m just worried about playing Yale again, I think.”

 

And--Oh. That makes sense to Jack, a hell of a lot of sense, when he takes two seconds to think about it. That’s probably what Bitty had been thinking about when Jack first crashed his roof session.

 

“That’s fair,” Jack says. As much as he doesn’t know the root of Bitty’s checking issue, he knows that he’s improved so much over the season, that he’s been playing amazing hockey. Bittle’s soft hands and quick feet aren’t the only things that make him valuable out on the ice, but Jack knows that those are the first things to disappear from Bitty’s game when he gets too trapped in his head about being smoked into the boards.

 

“When I was in my frosh year,” Jack says, “Shitty lived across the hall from me.” He smiles, closing his eyes and leaning his head back until it hits the wall behind him. “You should’ve seen him. I know everyone swoons over him now, but he was a total tool.”

 

“Anyway,” Jack says. “He walked across the hall, and knocked on my open door. And he made some joke, y’know, about how I should help him unpack all his shit, because he didn’t have professional athletes helping him move boxes. And I was scared, ‘cause it meant that he knew who I was, recognized my dad. It was--” Jack clears his throat softly, and he can feel Bittle looking at him, but he can’t bring himself to open his eyes. “It was a nice surprise. He’s the best friend I’ve ever had. But the first time I met him, I was horrified.”

 

“I thought--” Bitty starts, and Jack feels him shift his weight a bit, but he doesn’t pull away from where he’s pressed into Jack’s side, and Jack finally reaches his arm across his lap to pass Bitty their shared can of beer. “I remember thinking, when I first met y’all, that I wouldn’t survive. I thought about quitting.”

 

Jack drags his pinky along the outer seam of Bitty’s jeans just barely. “But you didn’t, and you’re good now, right?”

 

Bitty knocks his head against Jack’s shoulder, rests against him, and says, “Can’t imagine where I’d be if I had. It’s been--” Bitty clears his throat a bit and finishes the beer. “I’m good.”

 

“And you’re gonna be good against Yale, too.” Jack, in his daring, squeezes Bitty’s leg once under the comforter and says, “You know I’ve got your back.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Once hockey is done, the semester flies by.

 

Spring semester, Jack has always found, is its own special brand of torture. They don’t win playoffs, but it’s a close thing. They fight for it, work themselves down to the bare bones. In the end, Jack doesn’t even care that they lose, because it’s amazing hockey, and it’s fun, and he’s there with so many people that he’s never going to play with again.

  
  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
  


#  _ii: a high point we leave behind_

  
  
  


Some days, Jack’s hands still shake.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Eric’s oven stops working.

  
  
  
  


* * *

* * *

  
  
  


#  _iii: when we go on our going away_

  
  
  
  


Bittle doesn’t even notice the new oven for an entire two minutes. Jack signed a very impressive contract with the Falconers not two weeks ago, but the moment that he sees Bitty see the new oven, the moment Bitty’s eye go wide before glazing over, the moment between that and the next one, when he slides his eyes to meet Jack’s gaze--the moment fills Jack with more joy and more pride than he’s ever felt.

 

And Jack knows: happiness isn’t something that stays. Minutes and hours pass into days, and the desire to hold onto any cherished timestamp is foolish at best. But it’s a lesson that was hard for Jack to learn.

 

Jack is very talented, and he’s worked damn hard. As much as he’s had more than enough handed to him in his life, he knows how to fight tooth and nail for what he wants. And he knows that sometimes you can fight your hardest, try your best, and still lose.

 

He knows that happiness--the real, light, valuable brand of happy that he’s always chased--is hard to come by and quick to leave.

 

It slithers its way into the small, vulnerable spaces in Jack’s life and makes him hopeful.

 

Bitty says, “How did y’all...where did y’all…” and Jack can barely breathe for all the emotion that has worked its way into his chest. Bittle covers his face with his hands, and Jack thinks he’s crying. He snaps a picture, the sound of the shutter nothing compared to the pounding in his ears; even if he doesn’t get to hold onto this lightness, doesn’t get to bottle up how happy he feels and keep it forever, he can take a picture, which is about as close as he knows how to get.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The Haus fills up quickly, people pressing into Jack from all sides, laughing and smiling. Jack sometimes doesn’t like parties, sometimes feels suffocated, like all the nerve endings under his skin are on fire. But everywhere he looks, people seem happy: Lardo is leaning up to whisper into Shitty’s ear where they’re standing beside the fridge in the kitchen; Farmer is smiling at Chowder, all fondness and affection.

 

Jack can handle the noise of a stadium, can handle being thrown into the boards by guys taller and wider than he is. He can handle the glare of ice. What Jack has a hard time stomaching is loud music and louder people, other people’s alcohol, spilling sticky onto his skin as he turns the corner.

 

When Bittle’s soft hand circles his wrist, Jack has to turn around to see him.

 

Jack has a red solo cup filled with water, but no one needs to know that. Bittle is drunk. But he’s smiling, and he doesn’t drop Jack’s wrist when they’re fully facing each other. Jack smiles and says, “You know I didn’t actually forget your birthday, right?”

 

Bitty nods, barely a tilt of his head, and says, “I got there eventually.”

 

Jack smiles, and leans his shoulder into the wall beside him. “Are you having a nice time?”

 

Bitty nods, and says softly, “Yes.” He closes his eyes and gives his head a quick shake and says, “But I’m very drunk.”

 

“Here,” Jack says, and presses his cup of water into Bittle’s hands. “Do you need to get something to eat? I keep telling you, more--”

 

“More protein, yes Jack, I’ve read all the articles you’ve emailed me. Clif bar might be good, though.”

 

Jack drapes his arm over Bittle’s shoulders and leads him towards the pantry. “Chocolate chip or peanut butter?”

 

“Peanut butter,” Bitty says, leaning his head into Jack’s shoulder. Bittle’s hair has grown out, and it tickles the soft skin on the inside of Jack’s arm. Jack unwraps the Clif bar, and then turns to lean his back against the counter. Bittle takes a determined bite, then hands it out to Jack, eyebrows raised. Jack smiles, takes a bite, then almost chokes when Bittle says, “You’re a growing boy.”

 

“Got my meal plan from the trainers last week,” Jack says. “No more pies for me.”

 

“But now I have a fancy oven. You’ll have to try something.”

 

Jack smiles down at Bittle, and says, “I’m sure you’ll be able to convince me when the time comes.”

 

“I won’t even need to, honest to goodness. If I make that maple-apple crumble, you’ll come runnin’.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


They get roped into a game of beer pong where Bittle agrees to drink all the beer Jack should be downing, and even though Bittle gets less and less steady on his feet, Jack has amazing aim, and Bittle is sufficiently distracting for everyone involved that they still win three in a row. When Bittle has to lean into Jack to stay standing, Jack bows out on their behalf, letting Chowder and Farmer sub in for them against Ransom and Holster, Reigning Beer Pong Haus Champions.

  
  


Jack doesn’t know what time it is, but the sun’s falling in the sky when Shitty jumps onto the coffee table and yells, “Announcement time, kidlets!”

 

For a reason Jack doesn’t understand, most of the room falls silent quickly, turning to face him. “Rans, turn down the music,” Lardo says, and then gestures back to Shitty.

 

“Normally,” Shitty starts, and runs his fingers over his moustache. “Normally this sort of thing gets discussed a bit later in the year, but today is very special. To all the randos that’re here to enjoy our ‘swasome party in honor of Bits’ b-day, you probably don’t know what I’m talking about.”

 

“But, I digress. Special day, year’s end, good season, yadda yadda.” Shitty gesticulates whenever he talks, but standing on the coffee table, solo cup in hand, Jack can actually imagine him in a courtroom, eyes turned on him with as much rapt attention as he’s captured now, even in a room of drunk college kids. “As some of you may know, Jack Zimmermann over there,” Shitty points at him, and Jack works to keep the blush off his cheeks, and raises his cup of water in salute, “has been the captain of the Samwell men’s hockey team three years runnin’, now. Last year, he was elected unanimously, which was unprecedented in Samwell history.”

 

Jack can feel his blush, then, and he hears Holster give a “whoop whoop” from across the room, with Dex shouting, “Jacky-boy!”

 

“Not the point,” Shitty laughs. “Jack’s ego doesn’t need any help with inflation.” Jack tunes out Shitty’s rambling a bit, after that. He scans the room until he meets Bittle’s eyes, and Bittle smiles.

 

Jack knows what Shitty planned to say, had taken a seat dutifully at Shitty’s desk chair while he’d ran the speech by him last week after Lardo and the coaches had collected votes. Jack smiles back at Bittle, and he feels something settle in him, like a million little pieces are finally in their proper place. “So I’d like to bring up new captain of Samwell Men’s Hockey team for the 2015-16 season, elected by unanimous vote, who holds a special place in all our hearts, birthday boy Eric Bittle.” Bittle’s eyes go wide, and his smile falters, and Jack feels his own smile get wider, and nods softly, and then Bitty is smiling again.

 

A lot happens at once, with lots of noise and cheering and the boys somehow all manage to pile on top of Bittle in the middle of the living room. Jack watches fondly as Chowder squares his shoulders and says, “It’ll be my honor to play with you, Captain,” as Bittle responds, dragging out the words, “Chowder! Stop! Oh my goodness!”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


People start to file out of the Haus just after midnight. Early, considering their kegsters usually get shut down by campus security around two a.m., but they’d gotten an early start, and no one complains when most people seem to be calling it quits. Jack sneaks into the backyard to avoid the possibility of clean up duty, even if it’s more likely to happen in the morning. He’d originally tried to escape to his bedroom, but had detoured when he caught sight of Lardo, on her tip toes, smiling and nodding and whispering, “Yes, god, of course, alwa--” before Shitty had ducked down to press his lips to hers, softer than anything Jack had ever seen. He’d looked away quickly, knowing that while it was an important moment, it wasn’t his to see, wasn’t his to interrupt.

 

The backyard was a good second to his bed, really. A lot of his stuff in his bedroom has already found its way into boxes, haphazardly packed with no particular system for when he’ll unpack them in a few weeks time in Providence.

 

Jack knows he can get lost in his own headspace, but it still surprises him when Bittle takes a seat beside him on the back step.

 

“Hiding?” Bitty asks, after a few moments of comfortable silence.

 

“Nah,” Jack says. “Just winding down, y’know?”

 

“Yeah,” Bitty nods. “I’m so keyed up, don’t think I’ll be gettin’ to bed for ages.”

 

“You had a big day.” Jack knocks his shoulder into Bittle’s, leaves his arm pressed along Bittle’s arm.

 

“Big shoes to fill,” Bittle says, and he sounds worried, nervous, and Jack thinks it’s the worst sound he’s ever heard.

 

Jack shakes his head. “You getting the C isn’t about me, Bittle. You earned it all on your own.”

 

“I’ve never felt--” He stops, and Jack cringes as Bitty presses the heel of his hands into his eyes. “I’m not good enough.”

 

“You earned your spot on this team the same way anyone else did,” Jack says, and settles his hand on Bittle’s back.

 

“I really like playing hockey,” Bittle says. “But I have no plans to keep playing hockey after I graduate. Maybe a beer league if I have the time, but--”

 

“Having domestic plans doesn’t mean you can’t lead these boys the way they need you to.” Bittle leans into Jack’s shoulder, and Jack stretches his arm across Bittle’s back, squeezes his arm lightly. “You’re gonna be fine,” Jack says. Bittle hums in the back of his throat, and says, “If you say so.”

  
  
  
  
  


They sit outside for nearly an hour, until Bittle starts to shiver, and then Jack hoists him up and they head inside. Bitty makes them stop in the kitchen for glasses of water, and even though Jack hasn’t had a drink all night, he humours him.

 

They walk up the stairs with Jack’s hand on the small of Bittle’s back, and when Bittle tries to duck into his room, Jack says, “Brush your teeth, c’mon.”

 

“Yes sir,” Bittle says, and salutes Jack as he walks backwards into his room, grabs his pajamas off his bed.

 

Jack changes into his own pajamas while Bittle’s in the washroom, and leans against the wall across the hall until he hears the tap turn off, and Bittle swings the door open a bit too forcefully. He smiles when he sees Jack waiting, genuine and sweet, and the softness of him doesn’t escape Jack.

 

“All yours,” Bittle says, and Jack says, “Sleep tight,” before slipping into the washroom to get ready for bed.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


When Jack makes it downstairs the next morning, Lardo and Shitty have already collected all the empty bottles and cans into big black garbage bags, and are making eyes at each other from across the table while Bittle makes breakfast.

 

“Everyone else still asleep?” Jack asks, and Bittle nods without looking up from the eggs he’s frying.

 

“Over-medium?” He asks, and Jack says, “Please,” as he pours himself a cup of coffee. He takes the milk from the fridge and says, “Top up?” as he reaches for the mug Bittle has on the counter beside a stack of plates.

 

“Thank you,” Bittle says, and Jack stirs a teaspoon of sugar into Bitty’s mug.

 

“Nice new stove,” Jack says, and grins as Bitty’s eyes light up.

 

“It’s amazing,” Bittle says, just as Lardo says, “He hasn’t named it yet.”

 

“Do you want me to make you breakfast or what?”

 

“Sorry,” Shitty says. “Our hungover asses are grateful and we love you.”

 

“That’s what I thought,” Bitty says.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Lardo slaps Shitty’s ass on their way out the front door, and Bittle laughs.

 

Jack looks up from where he’s reading at the table to Bittle, where he’s laying baking ingredients out on the counter beside his Kitchen Aid. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Bittle says. “It’s nice that they--I don’t know. It’s just nice.”

 

“About time,” Jack says.

 

“Hm,” Bitty hums. “I think it’s brave to try to be happy.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


* * *

* * *

 

#  _iv: masked desire to lose it all_

  
  


Jack is a lot of things--he let his emotions get in between him and the NHL before--and for all that he’s hard-working and tenacious, Jack has never been brave.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The team goes for a final team meal the morning before graduation; it’s something they’ve done every year that Jack’s been at Samwell. They all wake up at the crack of dawn, and the whole roster shows up at Faber for one last skate.

  
  


They scrimmage and Bitty spends half an hour teaching Ransom and Holster how to do spins while in mid-air. Shitty makes Jack hold his hand as they skate laps, and then they file back off the ice, and head to commons for breakfast.

  
  
  


Ransom and Holster spend the rest of the morning helping Shitty pack the rest of his boxes into his Volvo, and Bitty spends a few hours filling tupperware containers with baking for everyone to take home with them.

  
  


Bittle is singing to himself softly under his breath when Jack leans against the threshold between the living room and the kitchen. Jack recognizes the lyrics, but can’t place it, and he spends a too-long moment being overly fond of Bittle before he crosses his arms over his chest and says, “Bittle.”

 

Bittle jumps at his name. “What in Sam Hill are you tryin’ do to me, Jack, honestly,” Bitty says, holding his hand over his heart. “Are you trying to kill me?”

 

“Obviously not,” Jack says, deadpan, and Bittle smiles. “Haven’t you done enough baking for everyone? Come sit outside.”

 

“I’ve gotta--” Bittle says, and waves his hand at the kitchen. “I’ll have to clean up, and...I wanted to make sure everyone had something to take with them.”

 

“I’ll help you clean up later.”

 

“But your parents--”

 

“Are staying at a hotel. We’re not leaving until Wednesday, anyway.”

 

“Aren’t you doing dinner after the ceremony?”

 

Jack shrugs. “I said I didn’t really care, that I’d rather go out when we get to Rhode Island.”

 

“Oh,” Bittle says, looking at the floor.

 

Silence stretches out between them like nothing has since Bittle’s freshman year. Jack’s hands feel sweaty, his face warm.

 

“Listen Bitt--” Jack says just as Bittle says, “Jack I--”

 

Bittle’s eyes go wide, and he sighs, says, “Go ahead.”

 

“I--” Jack starts, his hands clenched, nails digging crescent moons into his palm. “I’m not a brave person,” he says, and Bittle’s brow furrows. “I wish I could--If I lived a different life, had different plans, maybe I would be.”

 

“I don’t--Jack, what--”

 

“I wish I could be with you,” Jack says. “I’ve wanted that for a long time.”

 

“I--Oh.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, and runs his hands through his hair.

 

“Why?” Bitty asks, hands twisting in the dishtowel he’s pulled off the counter.

 

“That’s not something that I--we can’t.”

 

Bittle shakes his head. “That’s stupid. Jack. It could be worth it.”

 

“It’s too much,” Jack says, and he has to squeeze his hands into even tighter fists to stop them from shaking. “I am sorry. If I couldn’t have hockey, then I’d want to have--”

 

“Jack,” Bitty says, and then he’s prying Jack’s hands apart. “Jack, it’s okay.”

 

“Sorry,” Jack whispers, and Bittle presses his hand into Jack’s.

 

“You’re going to be great,” Bittle says, stepping in closer to Jack. “You’re going to be better than anyone, and you’re going to make your dad so proud, and we’re all going to miss you. You’re gonna be fine.”

 

Jacks nods, and Bitty hugs him, steps right into his space and presses into him. “I just--I have to prove that I can do it.”

 

“So do it,” Bittle says into Jack’s collarbone. “Go be a star. You know where I’ll be in the meantime.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jack spends the entirety of his commencement ceremony thinking about he doesn’t think he’ll be able to carry the weight of Bittle waiting for him.

 

Jack already has so many things that live inside him that can crumble at any moment. He already spends every day fighting a battle with himself, and the added of baggage of knowing that he’d be in any given city across North America while Bittle was at Samwell, holding a candle for him--he hates it.

 

He hugs his mom tighter than he has in years, and when he fists the fabric of her sun dress in his hands, she says, “Jack, baby, it’s--”

 

So he says, “I love you,” into her hair, and feels just a bit lighter.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


If life were fair, it would happen like this:

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


Jack unpacks his Samwell jersey from a box that says _clothes, unpack first_ on the side, and closes the box again, pressing along the packing tape in hopes of re-sealing his early attempt at packing up the last four years of his life into a collection of boxes and gear bags.

 

He pads across the hall, and steps into Bitty’s room. Bitty’s in the shower; Jack can hear him singing through the walls, and he does his best to remember the sound, remember the feeling, save as much of this moment as he can. There is a warmth that he’s found at Samwell that he knows he will never be able to recreate again, and Bittle is undoubtedly a part of that.

 

He places his folded jersey on Bittle’s bed, and sighs.

 

“Hey,” Bittle says from behind him, and Jack jumps. He’s got a towel around his waist, skin flushed from the heat of the shower. And Jack has seen Bitty post shower more times than he can count, but the soft intimacy of this hits Jack, and he has to swallow hard before saying, “Hi.”

 

“What’s goin’ on?”

 

“I uh--nothing,” he says, suddenly embarrassed.

 

“Nothin’ made you venture ‘cross the hall at quarter past midnight?”

 

“Goodnight, Bittle.”

 

Jack makes to move around him in the doorway, but Bittle steps in front of Jack. And Bittle isn’t intimidating, not in any real way, but Jack can feel his heartbeat pick up, his breath stop and sputter and start again. Jack means to reach up to move Bittle out of his way, but when his right hand wraps around Bittle’s shoulder, Bittle reaches out for Jack’s waist.

 

“I--” Bittle starts, and then he squeezes Jack’s hips gently. “I’d rather know,” he says, and Jack says, “Thank fuck,” and then presses his mouth, hard, against Bittle’s.

 

“Mhm,” Bittle hums, and steps forward, forcing Jack to step back into the middle of the room. Bittle kicks his bedroom door closed with his foot, his left hand tightening around Jack’s waist, and his right letting go of the knot of his towel to reach for the back of Jack’s ribs.

 

Bitty’s lips are soft, but the force behind them propels Jack backwards. The back of his knees hit Bittle’s bed, and he sits, pulls Bittle in between his spread legs.

 

Bittle pulls away from Jack’s mouth to kiss at Jack’s jaw, across his cheekbones. When Bittle cups Jack’s face in both his hands, Jack lets out an unsteady breath, and opens his eyes.

 

Jack blinks softly as Bittle runs his thumbs over Jack’s eyebrows, and when he finally presses his mouth to Jack’s again, it’s hungrier, more teeth and tongue than before. Jack groans into it, moves his hands from Bittle’s hips to his ass, and pulls their lips together.

 

They stay pressed together for a few minutes, their hands roaming. Jack feels overwhelmed in the best way he can remember; even though he hasn’t been with anyone in a long time, it only feels urgent in its enormity, in how important he knows this is to him, how the press of Bittle’s soft hands on Jack’s shoulders will be a phantom pressure that Jack will be half able to feel the entire drive from Samwell to his condo in Providence. When Bittle pushes at Jack’s chest, Jack stops kissing him, blinks his eyes open slowly.

 

“Sit back for real,” Bittle says, and then reaches for the hem of Jack’s shirt. Jack lets him pull it over his head while he scoots back on Bittle’s extra-long twin bed, his hands still urging Bitty forward. When Jack’s shirt is thrown across the room, Bitty’s eyes look over Jack’s chest before his gaze reaches Jack’s crotch. He looks back up at Jack, hands hover at Jack’s pajama pants, and asks, “Can I?”

 

“Only seems fair,” Jack says, as he undoes the soft fold that’s still miraculously holding Bittle’s towel up around his waist.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It isn’t fair, though--life never has been, not for Jack or anyone else, and so it doesn’t happen this.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


It doesn’t happen this way because Jack has never been brave.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


There is a sadness inside of Bittle that has as much to do with Jack as it has to do with everything else.

 

Jack remembers being twenty; remembers being on the losing end of rehab treatment, and having nothing. Jack remembers what it’s like to be sad and to know that your best friend is somewhere else, not thinking of you.

 

Jack remembers knowing that his parents love him, that his dad has always been proud of him no matter what; that his dad’s guilt and pride plague him more than anything that Jack has ever done. He remembers that his mother misses him whenever they’re apart. Jack remembers missing her--Jack still misses her. He misses her fingers in his hair and her voice in his ear, softer than anything.

 

Jack remembers white gowns, white slippers, white walls, starchy bed sheets.

 

Jack remembers winning.

 

More than anything, Jack remembers what it’s like to be twenty and think that no one will ever love you back.

 

And because Jack is not brave, Jack says nothing.

 

And because Bittle is sad in a way that Jack cannot reach--a type of sad that lives inside him somewhere so deep that his parents cannot get there anymore, and that leaves him so alone that even if Jack were brave--it still wouldn’t be fair.

  
  
  
  


* * *

* * *

 

#  _v: in front of a closed box which cannot be opened_

  
  
  
  


What happens is this:

 

Bittle’s in the shower; Jack can hear him singing. Jack unpacks his box that has _clothes, unpack first_ written down the side, and he softly pads across the hall to Bittle’s bedroom. He opens the door, places the folded jersey in the back of Bittle’s dresser.

 

Jack closes Bittle’s bedroom door, and goes back to his room.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


The next morning, his mom picks him up from the Haus at 7:45. Bittle’s already awake. In the kitchen, there’s coffee sitting in the pot, travel mug set aside for Jack with just enough milk and a little bit of sugar.

 

Bittle says, “I made scones, if you want.”

 

And Jack nods, and says, “My mom’ll like that.”

 

Bittle nods, and they look at each other for a moment too long, and then Bitty smiles softly, the corners of his mouth barely lifting to a grin. Jack says, “I am sorry.”

 

Bittle says, “So am I.”

 

Jack says, “I’ll text you, I promise,” and Bittle says, “Can’t wait.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



	2. august and everything after

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jack isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to living alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that big ol' disclaimer that was on the first chapter for homophobia warnings and associated male-culture apply to this chapter. 
> 
> big thanks to quinn, pris, and emily.
> 
> the title of this story is loosely taken from Mary Gordon's _Joan of Arc_ : “About noon, an arrow entered Joan’s body, just above her left breast, at exactly the place she had prophesied to her confessor. She fell back, in shock and in great pain. She wept, despite her foreknowledge of the nature of her wound. It is as though she were surprised, not that she had been struck by an arrow, but that it would hurt."

 

#  _i: one reason that cats are happier than people is that they have no newspapers_

 

**Aces Eliminated from Western Conference Finals**

by Jameson Leslie, 29 May 2015

 

The Las Vegas Aces were eliminated from the Stanley Cup Western Conference Finals yesterday. The series saw its end in Chicago last night, where the Blackhawks won in Game 6 with a final score of 3-1. The Aces and Blackhawks have shown steady competition in the last seven years, especially since the addition of Captain Kent Parson to the Aces’ roster. Parson scored the only goal of the game for Las Vegas, but it wasn’t enough to fend off elimination. With Chicago progressing to the Stanley Cup finals, they’ll be looking at a potential dynasty status.

 

Aces’ Captain Kent Parson looked justifiably heartbroken, after having led his team to victory in the Cup finals last year. “You always hear people saying it’s impossible to defend a Cup win,” he said. “But it’s still hard. We fought hard, just not hard enough.” Up until elimination, Parson was second in ice time only to Chicago’s Duncan Keith, and trailed by a mere 3 minutes and 46 seconds in gameplay. Parson lost out on this year’s Art Ross trophy to Dallas Stars’ Captain Jamie Benn, but only by a single point. All said, Parson had a career season with amazing stats.

 

“Playing in the [United Center] is hard enough,” he said. “Toews is a force to be reckoned with, but I can’t think of a better team to go out against. They’re good guys, and play a good game.” When asked who he’ll be cheering for in the final, Parson finally cracked a smile. “As much as Pat and Jonny are good dudes, they still beat me. I’m kind of hoping both teams lose.”

 

_Jameson Leslie is the official Aces’ correspondent at the Las Vegas Sun. Follow along on Twitter @ lvsunjames for more._

 

 

 

 

 

**Canada’s Prodigal Son: Jack Zimmermann**

by Sam Winter ||  10 May 2015

In this Sports Illustrated Exclusive, Jack Zimmermann Tells All

 

Jack Zimmermann has been on every hockey fanatic’s radar for years. Nearly twenty-five years, if you count his infantile public debut of being held over the Stanley Cup by his father, Robert “Bad Bob” Zimmermann for a now-infamous photo-op. Now, on the far end of an impressive youth career in the QMJHL with Rimouski Oceanic, a drug scandal, a long recovery, and (come next week) college graduation, the younger Zimmermann spoke with Sports Illustrated about what his plans are.

 

Zimmermann has spent the last four years at Samwell University, in Massachusetts, where he majored in American History and played for the Samwell Men’s hockey team. At Samwell, Jack acted as Captain of the Samwell team for three years, and led the team to league Championships three years in a row.

 

Read more at SportsIllustrated.com

 

 

 

Providence Falconers @NHLfalcs

Big addition to the Falcs-family today #jayz pic.twitter.com/photo/tgoj23n…

 

Patrick Sharp @10PSharp

Grateful for the great years spent in Chicago and all the fans. New roots.

 

**Sharp Trade: Patrick Sharp Traded to Providence Falconers**

by Andy Packer || 25 July 2015

 

Three time Stanley Cup Champion Patrick Sharp, formerly of the Chicago Blackhawks, has been trade to the Providence Falconers. Falconers General Manager, Chris Vancamp, announced the trade via press release. The Falconers gave Chicago their first round draft pick for Patrick Sharp. With the Blackhawks core being broken up after winning their third Stanley Cup together, the future of their franchise seems to be shifting gears. However, the future of the Falconers is looking more and more interesting by the day. With this morning’s Sharp announcement, and last week’s press release detailing a five-year contract for center Jack Zimmermann (25, undrafted), the upcoming season will surely be different from the last.

 

Read More at providencejournal.com

  


**Hawks Trade Sharp!**

deadspin.com, 25 July 2015

 

It’s no surprise that the Blackhawks have officially traded left winger Patrick Sharp. He was definitely considered among the list of potential salary-cap casualties, and today it’s official. After a rough bout of rumors out of the Blackhawks dressing room, there has been an open discussion about his potential trade for some time. (Allegedly, Chicago forward Patrick Kane was in a physical altercation with Sharp last year.) Sharp’s last season with Chicago didn’t produce the best statistics, but he was crucial to many of their pivotal playoff moments. As for Providence, having an older player with Sharp’s experience on the team brings a lot of promise; as a team, they have been in desperate need of a rebuild, and Sharp’s leadership experience coupled with the huge contract they put forward for the undrafted Jack Zimmermann will give them an exciting start to their season.

  
  
  


* * *

* * *

 

# 

#  _ii: broad shouldered beasts_

 

Jack’s alarm goes off at 8:12, and he reaches across to his bedside table to smack in the general direction of his phone before hitting snooze. Nine minutes later when it goes off again, he rolls out of bed.

 

The hardwood of his condo is cold on his feet, and he shivers, cold from leaving the warmth of his bed and waking to the air conditioned state of his bedroom.

 

He rubs the sleep from his eyes as he turns on his Keurig, stretches his arms above his head until his back pops. He takes a bottled protein shake from the fridge, and then stirs milk into his coffee. He hoists himself up onto the granite of his kitchen island, legs hanging in front of him.

 

It’s quiet, but if he concentrates he can hear the sounds of traffic outside.

 

Jack isn’t sure if he’ll ever get used to living alone.

 

Georgia had explained that normally they set their rookies up with housemates. She’d explained how Triber and Webs had lived together in their rookie year, and how even though it had been the blind leading the blind, it was better than them being on their own.

 

“Forces you boys to learn how to feed yourselves, when you need to cook for someone else.” Jack had laughed, then, but Georgia had said, “Although I guess you’ve got a pretty good handle on that, living with a foodie and all.”

 

“I took a few Foods classes,” Jack had said. “And I’m a bit old for a rookie. I’ve lived with hockey players for a long time, either way.”

 

And then she’d let Jack look at one bedrooms, let him buy a condo on the third floor of a building not ten minutes away from Brown Stadium. Not that she’s the boss of him, but Jack would probably have signed up to live with an eighteen year-old had she asked.

 

Instead, he has 1,300 square feet of heated hardwood flooring, two bedrooms and a bathroom with a double vanity. He has a walk in closet and a small room off the foyer with a washer and dryer. There’s a nice view, a little balcony with chairs that his mom picked out from an Ikea catalogue.

 

He spent his first morning alone sliding across the floor in his socks and singing aloud to the stereo, but generally the apartment’s been quiet since his parents left.

 

Jack is finishing his coffee when his phone pings from the other room.

 

_wanna pick me up for ice? i may never drive again, these fucking potholes_

 

Jack smiles, taps out, _okay, 40 mins?_

  
  
  
  
  
  


“You know you’re going to need to get used to the road eventually,” Jack says as Sharpy climbs into the passenger seat. “How’re you going to take your kids to school?”

 

“Abby’s a better driver than me.”

 

Jack pulls back onto the street. “They’re moving in next week, right?”

 

“Yeah,” Sharpy says, closing his eyes and leaning back against the headrest. “Camp’s always busy, plus Abby thought I should spend some time trying to adjust to playing on a different team.”

 

“Sorry,” he says. “I didn’t mean to--”

 

“No, no man, don’t worry. It’s just weird. It’ll be fine.”

 

“They’re going to offer you an A,” Jack says, trying to change the subject.

 

“Fuckin’ right,” he says, and Jack catches Sharpy’s smile out of the corner of his eye.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


“Schultzy, you fuckin’ thug,” Sharpy yells when he and Jack turn into the locker room.

 

“Sharpy, you bitch,” Schultzy says, turning just in time to wrap Sharpy into a massive hug. Jack makes his way to his locker, tosses his water bottle down.

 

Jack’s dad had put him in touch with Sharp, but otherwise Jack hasn’t done many meet and greets with the rest of the team. He spends a few minutes organizing his stuff and watching the guys out of the corner of his eyes--Schultzberger has a photo of Doug Glatt on his locker, and he and Sharpy spend a few minutes of sharing half-finished sentences and huge laughs. Jack gets lost thinking about how tall Schultzberger must stand on skates, when Sharpy says, “Zazzy drove me. Jack, get over here.”

 

“Zazzy?” Jack says, and raises an eyebrow as he crosses to Sharpy’s locker.

 

“He won’t let me call him Jay-Z,” Sharpy says to Schultzberger.

 

“Beyonce’s too good for me, I’ll never deserve her,” he says, and they both laugh. “Zazzy’s not--”

 

“I know,” Sharpy says. “I knew it was wrong as soon as I said it. I’m going to figure it out, though. Have you met Ira before?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Jack Zimmermann,” he says, hand outstretched.

 

“I know,” he says. “Ira. But call me Schultzy.” He shakes Jack’s hand. “We’re glad to have you.”

 

“Glad to be here,” Jack says. “Where’re--”

 

“Rooks are already on the ice,” Schultzy says.

 

“Then I’d better,” Jack says, gesturing back to his locker.

 

“Sure,” Schultzy says, and Jack feels stupid. Shy in a way that he hasn’t felt in ages.

  
  


 

 

 

Jack is an amazing hockey player. He’s known this for years. He signed the contract that George slid across to him over two months ago. But when he steps onto the ice, his blades sharp and his practice jersey fresh, it finally hits him.

 

He takes a deep breath and then skates to the lopsided bucket of pucks near center ice.

 

When Sharpy comes up behind him, he hits Jack’s ass with the blade of his stick, and smiles.

 

“Does it ever get old?” Jack asks.

 

Sharpy swipes the puck away from Jack, smiles, and says, “Never does,” before skating away.

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Georgia peeks her head around the doorframe of the locker room. “Hope you’re all decent,” she says. “PR wants you guys to all go to lunch together, so unless you’re already scheduled with them, pick a place and meet there.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

“Zimmermann,” Tribber throws his arm across Jack’s shoulder. “You wanna sit with me and Dot at lunch? We don’t want you hanging out with the old folks more than necessary.”

 

“This is true,” Webs says. “They’re old as balls, and we are much cooler.”

 

“I, uh-- I mean, you know I’m closer to Ira’s age than to yours, right?”

 

“But alas,” Webs starts, “He looks old and you went to college, so we know you have better stories.”

  
  
  


 

 

 

Jack spends a week floating on different lines, much like Sharpy, until one day in practice Jack manages to net a shot on Hacter from just over the blue line off a saucer pass from Tremble. And even though it’s just a scrimmage goal, Dan still pats Jack on the back with a hard hand and says, “Amazing shot.”

 

When Jack says, “Thanks coach,” Dan smiles, and says, “How d’you feel about being on a line with Linds?”

  
  
  


 

 

 

“Are you all moved in?” Jack asks, and Shitty groans.

 

“You sound like my mom.”

 

“Well, are you?”

 

“My sister’s coming to help me build bookshelves and my bed and stuff tomorrow.”

 

“So you plugged in your laptop and haven’t moved from the couch since you got there yesterday, huh?”

 

“Jack, listen,” Shitty says. “I have been agonizing over very technical textbooks all week, and all I want to do is listen to your accented monotone tell me about playing in the National fucking Hockey League.”

 

Jack leans against the kitchen counter and watches as the oven preheats. “Everyone’s really nice. I think I’ll be on a line with Tremble and Dartmen.”

 

“Dartmen’s a fuckin’ savage.”

 

“I know,” Jack says. “Ira’s bigger than him, but he’s got an A now.”

 

“What’s Sharp like?”

 

“I feel bad for him,” Jack says.

 

“He’s won three cups, plus it’s not like his trade was a surprise.”

 

“He misses his friends. His family only got here two days ago. I don’t know.”

 

“Ahh,” Shitty says. “You can empathize with him.”

 

“Whatever,” Jack says, and Shitty laughs.

 

“I miss you too. I was gonna try to drive out to Samwell when Bits and Lardo get in next week. D’you have a few days off?”

 

“I don’t think so. But if you can get up here, I can get you guys tickets for our opener? My parents will be here, but you don’t have to sit with them if you don’t want.”

 

“What the fuck, Jack. Obviously I want to sit with the love of my life, your mother, and the other love of my life, your father.”

 

“Ask Lardo if she’d wanna join, okay? I texted Bittle about it, but it seemed weird.”

 

The oven beeps, and Jack slides the casserole dish onto the oven rack.

 

“Were you like ‘Eric Richard Bittle, would you, my school acquaintance, like to watch me play in a professional hockey game this coming October?’” Shitty says, terribly accented and steadily monotonous.

 

“I didn’t,” Jack says. “I’m a normal person.”

 

“Tell me what you said,” Shitty says, laughing through the phone.

 

“I said, ‘Hey Bittle, would you guys want to come watch a game?’”

 

“Ugh,” Shitty says. “Okay, no. Text him again, or better, call him, you know, like how I just did to you. Did your mom teach you how to dial a phone? And then say, ‘Bittle, if you have the second weekend of October free, would you like to come stay at my place in Providence? You could come watch the home opener with my parents and maybe Shitty, and then we can all hang out and you can sleep in my bed and never leave.”

 

“I--” Jack laughs, softly. “I get it. I don’t--he--we...ugh,” he says, and he can feel himself blushing, can imagine Shitty’s eyebrows shot up around his hairline. “I don’t--”

 

“Dude, just tell him you want him to come visit. Chill for like two seconds and tell him you miss him.”

 

“I--”

 

“You do miss him, right? You literally were just talking about feeling sad because Patrick Sharp misses the Hawks.”

 

“I--yeah, of course, but it’s--”

 

“Different, yeah. But guess what? Shit’s hard, man. Lardo and I play phone tag more often than not, and Cambridge really isn’t that far from Samwell, but it’s far enough, y’know? Try harder.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

Distance, Jack’s mom used to always tell him, is supposed to make the heart grow fonder.

 

Jack has always thought that was total bullshit. Jack thinks, rather, that distance makes your bed cold and your stomach sink. Jack thinks that being away from the people you care about just makes you bitter, lonely and mad about it. Jack thinks that his mom only used to tell him that because she missed him, and she’s his mother, it’s her job to love him even when he’s an asshole or a fuck up or prodigy.

 

Jack thinks there are some awful truths that everyone thinks but no one says; that every day, the people who love you learn to love you a little less.

  
  
  


 

 

 

The Falconers’ first three pre-season games are all away. They win the first one in Pittsburgh, which rocks Jack in a way that he wasn’t expecting. Crosby smiles at him, before the game, and then congratulates him after.

 

“Damn glad to be seeing you out here,” he says to Jack, smacking him on the back before moving forward in the handshake line.

 

The second and third are both in New York, the Rangers and the Islanders respectively. They lose both, but Jack gets two assists in each game.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Jack’s standing near the cutlery at team lunch when Tremble says, “I think Zimmermann wants to sit with us.”

 

“Why doesn’t he just come over here, then?” Schultzy asks.

 

“Oh boy...How long’s he been standing there?”

 

“Hey Zipper,” Sharpy says. “Stop bein’ a weirdo and come eat.”

 

“I was trying to figure out whether your collective stupidity was worth the distraction of dinner conversation.”

 

“Looked like you were nervous for your first day at school.”

 

“I don’t like Zipper, either.”

 

“Honestly, Zazzy was better,” Webs says.

 

“Y’all want to give ‘em a good nickname, but Sharpy’s the only one of you who’s been draftin’ ideas.”

 

“I am, undeniably, the smartest person here.”

 

“I don’t know,” Tribby says. “Fancy Jack did go to college.”

  
  


“Your family here?” Tremble asks as they line up in the tunnel.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “My parents, some people from school.”

 

“Big day, first home game.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says again.

 

“Hey,” Tremble calls over his shoulder. “Bad Bob Zimmermann’s in the stands.”

 

“Holy shit,” Webs says just as Tribby says, “Is your mom here, she’s so hot.’

 

“What the fuck,” Jack says. “Shut the fuck up about my mom.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

It takes Jack a few loops around the ice during warm-up to spot them, but on his third go-around, he catches sight up his parents, Bittle, Lardo and Shitty on their right.

 

Jack waves, and they all wave back.

 

Jack’s mom turns to say something to Bittle, and Jack lines up to take warm-up shots on Hacter.

  
  
  


 

 

The Falconers don’t have a named Captain this season; they didn’t have one last year, either, but they did well in the draft, and with Jack and Sharpy joining the roster, Jack thinks their chances of playing like a Cup-contending team are high. The guys are dedicated, Jack likes them, and they want to do well. With Sharpy’s experience, Jack thinks the C could easily go to him, since he and Schultzy each are wearing two of the As.

 

And Schultzy is huge, but he doesn’t like to fight anymore, and so when Chara slams Jack from behind on a check far dirtier than any preseason game warrants, Ira doesn’t throw down his gloves.

 

Jack is leaning forward on his hands, propped up on his knees and breathing hard when the crowd erupts. When Jack manages to look over his shoulders, Dartmen is on top of Chara, and Lucic has his arms around Tremble.

 

Once the officials break up the fight, a linesman skates over and offers Jack a hand. “I’m okay,” he says, but winces as his back pinches as he stands. He skates over to the bench, and Dan says, “Let’s check out your back.”

 

“It’s fine,” Jack says. “Bruising, probably. Let me go out on the powerplay.”

 

Chara gets a two minute minor, and Dan has Jack sitting for the first minute and a half of the powerplay, a trainer pressing in around Jack’s shoulder blades.

 

Then Dan signals for a change, and Jack goes.

 

Webs takes the puck to the point, and Jack swings up the left wing. Webs passes it to Tremble on the right side of the net, who saucers it across to Jack with lightning speed, and Jack one-times the puck right past Rask’s shoulder.

 

The crowd cheers, but all Jack can concentrate on is Webs and Tribby smashing into him, Tremble coming up behind him as they skate back towards the bench, saying, “Way to fuckin’ show ‘em, Jazzy.”

  
  
  
  


They win 1-0. Jack’s first goal lines up with Hacter’s first shutout of the season, and Jack feels lighter than he ever has in his life.

 

“Some of the guys are gonna get drinks, you comin’?” Schultzy asks.

 

“I--Maybe,” Jack stutters. “My, uh, my family’s here. But. Maybe?”

 

Sharpy leans over to Jack’s stall. “Why’re you saying maybe if you wanna say no?”

 

“I--” Jack stops.

 

“If your hockey legend dad can take a photo with us, you can definitely skip team beer night.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “Yeah, okay. Thanks, Sharpy.”

  
  
  


* * *

* * *

 

#  _iii: the age of four, warned about hubris_

 

Falconers @NHLfalcs

Zimmermann scores game winner, first NHL goal of his career!

 

Falconers @NHLfalcs

Two generations of Zimmermanns in Falcs’ jerseys tonight pic.twitter.com/photo/cyt78…

 

Deadspin @Deadspin

Bad Bob attends Falconers vs. Bruins pre-season wearing son’s jersey. http://www.deadspin.com/oct-8/bzimmerma...

 

HockeyNightInCanada @hockeynight

Bob Zimmermann at son’s first NHL game: “I’ve never been prouder to wear a jersey in my life.”

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

#  _iv: what it means to win_

 

 

Jack walks out of the locker room to find Bittle talking to Sharpy, his eyes wide.

 

“Stop slandering me,” Jack says, and Sharpy laughs.

 

“I wasn’t slandering you,” he says. “Eric was asking about Kaner, actually.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes. “Now we’ll never get out of here.”

 

“Not my fault that everyone you know has better taste than you, Zipp.”

 

“Jesus,” Jack says, and then blushes when he finally says, “Hey, Bittle.”

 

“Good goal,” Bittle says, and points behind his shoulder. “Your parents were mobbed by a bunch of your teammates, although more of them were talking to your mom than Bob.”

 

Sharpy laughs, and Jack says, “God, let’s go. I’m hungry.”

 

“It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Sharp,” Bittle says, blushing.

 

“All my friends call me Sharpy,” he says, and Bittle’s eyes bug out of his head.

 

Jack throws his arm over Bittle’s shoulder, “We’re going,” he says.

 

“Oh my God,” Bittle whispers.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

The six of them go for dinner at a seafood place near the water.

 

Jack’s dad has his arm around the back of his mom’s seat, and Lardo is leaning into Shitty’s side, and Jack keeps trading bites of his dinner for bites of Bittle’s but they aren’t touching at all, don’t look the same as Jack’s parents or Shitty and Lardo.

 

And dinner is good, everything tastes great, the wine his dad picked is good. Shitty talks about law school and Bob nods along; when Lardo talks about her installment, Jack’s mom lights up, asks Lardo questions about her grad project, about her film class. Jack had a good game, and he’s happy, but he sees Lardo’s hand on Shitty’s thigh, sees his dad’s hand touching the ends of his mom’s hair at her shoulder, and he aches in all the spots that he isn’t touching Bittle.

 

And he could, easily; their knees have knocked together enough over the course of dinner that it would be effortless to press his leg into Bittle’s, to reach for his hand under the table.

 

But every time any part of Jack touches any part of Bittle, Jack only feels it in all the places they aren’t touching, and Jack knows how he is. Jack knows that once he starts thinking about something, he can’t stop. He knows that if he let his knees touch Bittle’s under the table, he wouldn’t be able to help himself from reaching across the cupholders in his car on the way back to his condo. He knows that if he let his mouth touch any part of Bittle, he’d have a hard time stopping.

 

And Jack knows that he’s all too capable of destroying everything that matters to him; that waking up next to Bittle would be better than anything else he can imagine, but that his own brain can’t work out the kinks of the rest of that, of what it means, of what people would say, of how he fucked up he would be when it eventually fell to shit at his own hand.

 

Jack drops his fork and startles himself. “Sorry,” he says, and Lardo and Bittle go back to talking about the freshmen. Jack stands, says, “Excuse me,” softly before weaving his way through the tables to the washroom.

 

 

 

 

 

He splashes his face with water, tries to steady his breath.

 

He turns away from the mirrors at the sink, and leans back against it, his hands gripped tight on the counter behind him.

 

He spends a few moments trying to steady his breath before the washroom door opens slowly, and Bittle’s peers around to look at Jack.

 

Bittle stares at Jack for a minute, looks him straight in the eye without moving, and Jack looks away.

 

“Hey,” Jack says.

 

“Are you okay?” Bittle says, finally walking out of the doorway and towards Jack.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I just needed a second, I think.”

 

“Okay,” Bittle says. “I--”

 

“Let’s go back,” Jack says. “Did you order dessert yet?”

  
  
  
  


 

 

Shitty drives Lardo and Bittle back to Samwell the next afternoon, and Jack’s heart aches. As much as he likes the guys he’s playing with, he doesn’t feel like he has a life in Providence--he feels like he’s waiting for the other foot to drop, for something to fall through, for news to come down from some high place saying that he has to pack his bags. Being here, being on a team he’s proud to be on, being in the NHL--it seems like something that’s always been out of his reach. Jack imagines, then, that it’s the bittersweet taste of it all--he has everything he’s ever dreamed, but no one to share it with. His parents leave after dinner, a makeshift Canadian Thanksgiving of take-out on Jack’s patio, for probably the last warm night they’ll have until summertime.

 

Maybe he should take Sharpy’s suggestion of getting a dog.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _v: round here, we always stand up straight_

 

 

The start of the regular season has them playing one home game, and then six away games.

 

They lose in Washington, win in Montreal, lose in Ottawa, win in Toronto.

 

When they get to Vancouver, Jack has one of the worst starts he’s had in years. The crowd is vicious, and his head hurts. He doesn’t get on the board at all, and Burrows spends the first two periods spitting vitriol at Jack until Darth slams him into the boards behind Benny’s net and holds him there.

 

Jack isn’t on the ice when it happens, and Dartmen doesn’t get a penalty, but the crowd screams about it. The next time Jack’s on the ice, Burrows doesn’t say a single word to Jack, doesn’t pretend to snort coke off his fingers, doesn’t hit Jack any harder than necessary.

 

“You didn’t need to do that,” Jack says when he takes a seat on the bench beside Dartmen.

 

“I did,” he says. “But it’s okay, y’know? He’s an asshole but he’s never gonna win a Cup.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

Even well into November, it’s hot in Vegas.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

Kent scores twice and Jack scores twice and the crowd eats it up. Jack’s stomach feels twisted, but no one on the Aces’ bench says anything offside to Jack. The entire game is wound together in thick tension and absolute sportsmanship.

  
  


 

 

“Does it ever stop feeling like it isn’t real?” Jack asks.

 

“You mean how you wake up and eat and work out and eat and have a nap and then play in the NHL?” Jack nods and Kent takes a sip of his wine, then shakes his head softly. “Not really.”

 

“It doesn’t seem--”Jack wipes his hands on his pants. “It doesn’t seem like this could be my real life. That this is...all I have to do.”

 

“I mean,” Kent says. “Are you doing other stuff? Making friends, going places?”

 

“I spend time with Sharpy’s kids, sometimes. I don’t know, all the guys’re already friends with each other.”

 

Their server brings their plates over, and smiles. “Anything else, boys?”

 

“No, thank you,” Kent says. “Looks great.”

 

When she turns away, Jack looks down at his food before saying, “It seems like it should be harder.”

 

Kent is chewing when Jack looks up at him, and Jack cuts a bite out of his steak for something to do. “It is,” Kent says. “I mean, Jesus, I saw the highlights from that Canucks game. It can’t be easy to have massive assholes ribbing you about drugs.”

 

“I never did coke though.”

 

“But they think that you did. Everyone does. And it’s not--It’s not easy hiding your life away.”

 

“I just...This can’t be it, right? I don’t want to seem ungrateful, because it’s amazing and I love the hockey we’re playing but, I--I don’t know.”

 

Kent sighs and says, “You’ve always been complicated.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Jack crosses his arms over his chest and Kent huffs at him across the table, and his lips twitch, like he wants to smile but can’t quite manage.

 

He stares at Jack for a long moment, takes a sip from his wine and says, “Okay look. You used to whistle all the time. You were always whistling, and I’d only been skating with you for a week, and I asked you if you liked classical, right? You remember that?”

 

“No,” Jack says, which means something else all on its own--that Kent has this saved away and Jack can’t remember the first time they met.

 

“You laughed when I asked if you preferred Bach or Beethoven and you said that you couldn’t remember how to play the piano, which wasn’t an answer.”

 

Jack feels his brow furrow. “I don’t--”

 

“Whatever it is that you’re torturing yourself about, you gotta cut it out. Or talk to someone about it. You can’t keep people at arm’s length and then get mad at them for not touching you.”

 

“If I tell you, will you--”

 

“Discretion, yes Jack. It’s not like we don’t both have each other’s secrets stashed away.”

 

“Promise.”

 

“I promise.”

 

“Mostly I can’t stop thinking about how quiet my condo is. And how, like, it’s supposed to be my home. But mostly all I can feel is how empty it is, and how my apartment is like the rest of my life. Which is a fucking annoying thing to think, let alone say out loud. I lived with my friends and it was loud all the time and it used to make me so cranky, but now.” Jack shrugs, a barely-there movement of his shoulders and a deep breath. Running out of steam, he says, “It seems lonelier than it should be.”

 

Kent tips his wine glass back. “This isn’t going to sound nice,” Kent says. “And I’m sorry. But Jack, dude, you are never going to have what the other guys have. Sharpy’s beautiful family that he brings to games, he’s probably got a photo with them on the ice with Cup, right? You won’t get to do that, Jack, not unless you’re ready for the shitstorm that would come with that. Do you think that we’re the first--” Kent catches himself, rubs his hand over his eyes. “There’s no mathematical way that we’re the first two. But there’s a reason no one knows about it, you know?”

 

Jack runs his hand through his hair before reaching for his wine.

 

“Do you want to tell me about him, anyway?”

 

“Bittle. Eric. Do you remember him?”

 

“Blond one,” Kent says, smiling. “Zimms, you’ve got a type.”

 

Jack rolls his eyes. “We’re not...I told him we couldn’t, he agreed, but it still feels horrible.”

 

“You tell him that?” Kent asks.

 

“No, it’s not fair.” Jack shakes his head. “He’s already willing to put himself in harm’s way on my behalf, and it was shitty to realize but maybe I’m that too, you know? Harm’s way.”

 

“You’re not crazy, Jack.”

 

“I am, but it’s okay. At least we know now, eh?” Kent looks like he wants to say something else, but when he doesn’t Jack looks away from him, embarrassed. “Sharpy thinks I should get a dog.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

As they’re waiting at the Valet for Kent’s car, Kent says, “You could do it, if you wanted. You deserve to be happy, and I’ve never seen you cower at anything other than yourself.” Jack looks over at Kent, and he looks like he wants to smile but can’t help but frown. “Who the hell said you didn’t have it in you?”

  
  
  


 

 

* * *

* * *

  

#  _vi: something in this shade of grey_

 

They have a three day break when they get back to Providence, and Jack pulls out his phone as soon as they’re landing on Wednesday night.

 

_u spending thanksgiving w/ ur family?_

 

Shitty texts back, _yes but only if you mean yourself._

 

Jack smiles. _i’ll ask if i can skip practice on sunday._

 

“Dan,” Jack says as the rest of the team starts reaching for their overhead bags. “Would you be willing to let me miss practice on Sunday? For thanksgiving? I’ll stay on plan, I just--”

 

“Sunday’s an optional ice, Jack.”

 

“I know but,” Jack starts. Optional doesn’t usually mean optional if one wants to win.

 

“You have my permission,” Dan smiles.

 

Jack texts Shitty, _freebird. what’s the plan?_

  


 

 

 

Shitty picks Jack up at Logan the next morning. “You better sleep on the way, man. You look bagged.”

 

“But I wanna hear about you,” Jack says.

 

“You won’t want to hear about it for a second time when I have to tell the stories over again later, so go to sleep okay? We’ll stop at a Starbucks on the way.”

 

 

 

They still both have keys to the Haus, which is probably against some policy or another, but no one asked for them back, and neither Jack nor Shitty ever thought to offer. Jack has both their overnight bags over his shoulders, and Shitty is holding a flat of beer.

 

“Be quiet,” Shitty says, and Jack nods.

 

Shitty unlocks the door and juggles the beer around until he can push the door open with his shoulder. Jack can just see Holster sitting in the kitchen with Lardo. There’s humming coming from somewhere in the kitchen that Jack can’t see, and he doesn’t know the name of the song, but it sounds familiar enough that he knows Bittle must be near the sink following along to a Top 40 hit.

 

Shitty raises his finger to his lips when Lardo catches his eye, and even though a smile splits across her face, she casts her eyes down quickly.

 

“So, uhm, Bits, you think you got enough food for everyone?” She asks.

 

“There’re only seven of us who are stayin’ on campus,” Bittle says, and Jack smiles.

 

“Hmm,” she says. “That’s funny. I thought there were more of us.”

 

“Yeah,” Shitty says, tossing the flat of beer onto the counter. “I definitely make eight.” Bittle yelps, and even though Jack’s still a few steps behind Shitty, he hears Bittle drop whatever he was holding onto the counter.

 

“One more makes nine,” Lardo says just as Jack steps into the kitchen.

 

Holster says, “Fuckin’ rights,” as he stands from his seat at the table to turn and hug Shitty and then Jack.

 

“How did y’all—when did you—“

 

“Hi Bittle, I missed you too, I’m doing great, thank you for asking,” Shitty says, before shoving Bittle towards Jack.

 

Lardo’s feet lift off the ground when Shitty gets his hands around her middle, and she says, “You utter fucker,” before he presses a kiss to her cheek, and then her nose.

 

“You played that so fuckin’ cool,” he says, and Jack turns away, embarrassed to be a witness to their reunion.

 

“Can’t believe you haven’t gotten us all to a game yet,” Holster says. “The fuck’s that about? Rans is in a lab right now, but he’s going to beat your ass when he sees you.”

 

“I—Sorry,” Jack says. “I figured you’d all be more willing to see something in Boston rather than have to travel.”

 

“After Bitty told us about that nasty hit Chara laid on you when they saw you, I’m sure I could be persuaded to cheer for the away team.”

 

Bittle is untying his apron when he pushes at Holster’s back. “Y’all get outta my kitchen! Take this beer and go sit. I can get snacks together, go.”

 

“Couch’s gone, didja see?” Lardo asks.

 

Shitty holds his hand over his heart, and turns to Bittle. “How dare you?”

 

“I paid for the new one,” Jack says, smiling. “I’m surprised you didn’t notice when we came in.”

 

“I have priorities, Jackabelle.”

 

Holster grabs the flat of beer from the counter, and follows Shitty and Lardo out of the kitchen. As soon as they move past Jack, he realizes that it’s their way of giving him space. He doesn’t have long to consider it before Bittle has his hands wrapped around Jack’s waist, his face pressed into Jack’s chest.

 

“It’s—“ Bittle mumbles, and Jack can’t quite understand what he says after that, but it sounds like “really good to see you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack joins the rest of them in the living room once Bittle says, “Go catch up with them, it’s fine, I’m just going to cut veggies, go.”

 

Bittle joins them a few minutes later, places a plate of veggies and hummus on the coffee table before sitting on the arm of the couch beside Jack. When Chowder and Dex come in the front door, Chowder is saying, “What was so important that you couldn’t tell me ov—” before his mouth falls open and he says, “Oh! Hi!”

 

“Chow, your braces are gone,” Shitty says, getting up to hug them both.

 

“That they are,” Chowder says. Dex raises his hand to Jack, and Jack salutes him back.

 

“Sup man,” Dex says, and Jack feels fonder than he ever did when he was playing with them.

 

“Good to see you,” Jack says, as Holster hands them each a beer. “Where’s Nursey?”

 

“Seminar. He’s gonna be pissed.”

 

“The boys get along a lot better now that they’re not trying to impress you all the time,” Bittle says, and Lardo laughs. “I’m sure they’re going to torture me all weekend now that you’re here.”

 

Jack reaches to dip a carrot into the hummus, and his right hand lands on the small of Bittle’s back as he leans forward, and when Bittle presses back into Jack’s hand, he leaves it there when he settles back against the couch.

 

“Don’t you need to be setting an example for the new kids,” Jack asks, and he manages to keep his smirk down as Dex flounders.

 

Bittle chuckles, though, and Jack curls his fingers on Bittle’s back just a bit.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Ransom and Holster are doing dishes while Lardo fills Tupperware containers with leftovers. Shitty’s ripping up paper for a game of charades he’s decided they’re all going to play.

 

Jack is sitting across from Bittle going over plays that he’s drawn up for their next practice. Jack has been proud of Bittle for tons of things since they met, but Jack feels full to bursting with the pride he’s felt over the course of dinner, all his old teammates talking about how great of a captain Bittle is.

 

Bittle’s cheeks are rosy from the few bottles of wine they’d had with dinner, and he’s gesticulating while he tells a story about one of the new kids. Jack tries to burn the moment into his memory; he feels warm and full and there are five different conversations happening within his earshot. He doesn’t feel like he’s at home here anymore, but it’s still homey, safe and cozy, and he’s happy, and he wants to remember it.

 

“Don’t know why you’re asking for my help,” he says. “This looks good, the team’s stats are pretty good.”

 

“Not everyday that I get to ask for professional advice,” Bittle says.

 

“We text all the time,” Jack says.

 

“That’s different,” Bittle says, but he kicks at Jack’s shins lightly under the table. “But thank you.” He smiles, and Jack smiles back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They’re all drunker than they should be considering how much they ate at dinner by the time they start to scatter. “Where’re you planning to sleep?” Ransom asks. “Attic party?”

 

“Oh,” Jack says. “I uh—“

 

“Couch folds out,” Bittle says.

 

“Where’re you staying?” Jack asks Shitty, and he points to Lardo’s retreating form. “Right,” Jack says. “I knew that.”

 

“You didn’t,” Shitty laughs. “But, like.” He shrugs. “We figured everyone knew.”

 

“We have all known for longer than it’s been a thing to know,” Holster says.

 

“I am the way that I am,” Shitty says, standing from the loveseat. “And we’re leaving now,” he says.

 

 

 

 

 

Jack gathers wine glasses from around the living room while Bittle sets off in search of extra linens. When he comes back down the stairs, a bit unsteady for Jack’s liking, he says, “You’re a grown man, how did you not plan for somewhere to sleep?”

 

“Shitty and I only figured out this visit last night,” he says. “Plus, I don’t know. I kinda forgot that my room is Chowder’s now.”

 

Bittle throws the couch cushion onto the floor. “Pull on three?” Jack nods, and grabs the bar near the back of the couch. “Two, Three,” Bittle says, and the futon unfolds. “Are you sure this’ll be okay for your back? I’m happy to sleep down here, you can take my bed.”

 

“S’fine,” Jack says.

 

“If you’re sure,” Bittle says. He tosses one side of the sheets towards Jack, and holds up his end. They shake it loosely until it falls along the futon, and Bittle tucks in the edges.

 

 

 

 

Jack wakes up to Bittle whispering, “Jack, hey.” He groans and rolls towards the direction of Bittle’s voice. “Y’wanna jog with me? Or’re you too hung over?”

 

“Tabarnac,” Jack groans. “Yeah, yeah, alright,” he says. “Ten minutes?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They run in silence for the first five minutes or so, and Jack lets himself warm up and wake up at the same time. The soft morning light and the crisp air make the whole world feel still. Winter has always been Jack’s favourite season, and this weather is exactly why. With clear skies and chilly air, things seem to fall and settle in a way that can’t be managed in the heat.

 

Campus is quiet, and Jack didn’t check the time before they left, but it must be really early; there’re no cars on the streets, no one walking along the water. When they jog past Annie’s, the doors are still locked, the windows dark.

 

When they get to the far side of the pond, Bittle slows and says, “Stretch?”

 

Jack bends forward at the waist, touches his toes. When he stretches his arms above his head, his back cracks.

 

Bittle is balancing on one foot, his left knee bent behind him and his foot in his hand behind his back when he says, “I came out to my mom.”

 

Jack looks Bittle in the eye, but doesn’t say anything.

 

“It wasn’t horrible,” Bittle says. “Or, well, it was kinda horrible, but she didn’t take it horribly. I don’t think she was surprised.”

 

“She’s your mother,” Jack says. “She loves you.”

 

“That’s what she told me,” Bittle says.

 

“Good,” Jack says.

 

Bittle drops his foot, switches to the other side. “She said not to tell my dad.”

 

“D’you think he’d really—“

 

“Yes,” Bittle says, just a simple confirmation, as though it isn’t the single most devastating thing Jack has ever heard.

 

Jack is quiet for a moment before he says, “I told mama first too.”

 

“Yeah?” Bittle asks, and he sounds less sad, so Jack keeps going.

 

“Yeah. She’s a good mom. It wasn’t because I was being brave, though. I was just scared. I woke up in the hospital after—she’d been crying, and it took me a day to get the guts to say it out loud. She told my dad.”

 

“Really?” Bittle asks, and Jack knows he’s not asking about the drugs, doesn’t care about that. “Didn’t that—were you mad?”

 

“It helped him understand, I think. They’ve given me everything, I wouldn’t know how to be mad at either of them.”

 

Bittle swings his arms out in front of him a few times, and looks out across the pond. He bites his lip, and Jack stretches his neck as an excuse to tilt his head and watch Bittle’s face.

 

“Race you back?” Bittle says, before smiling and taking off towards the Haus.

  
  


* * *

* * *

 

 

 

#  _vii: this industrially led structure that says: How Dare You_

 

 

”Didja have a nice time visitn’ your girl?” Schultzy asks when Jack comes into the locker room.

 

“I don’t have a girl,” Jack says.

 

He drops his phone into his locker with a bit more force than necessary, and Sharpy clicks his tongue.

 

Jack puts on his gear in silence, and he’s shaking his biosteel into his water when he catches Sharpy starring at him. “What?”

 

“Nothing, Zippy, calm your tits.” Sharpy narrows his eyes. “What’s wrong with you?”

 

“Nothing, I’m tired.”

 

“What’s that supposed to mean,” Tremble says, smirking.

 

“It doesn’t mean anything,” Jack says before grabbing a stick and going into the hall. “If any of you lazy assholes want to win a hockey game,” he says, and gestures at the doorway.

 

“Hey man,” Benny says, mask in hand. “Are you okay? They were just—“

 

“I’m fine, Hacter.”

 

“I—“ Benny stops. “Sure man, whatever you say.”

  

Jack takes a deep breath, leans against the wall of the tunnel, and closes his eyes.

 

He doesn’t feel better when he steps on the ice, but he doesn’t feel worse.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Kings wipe the floor with them. It’s embarrassing and a horrible game, and Jack spends more time than he’d like in the penalty box.

 

Jack fucking hates California, and it’s always worse to lose at home, but losing to L.A. leaves a bitter taste in Jack’s mouth.

 

 

 

 

 

Dan pats him on the back after the handshake, and he says, “It wasn’t your fault. No one had it. They wanted to win.”

 

“I still should’ve been better.”

 

 

 

 

 

Some asshole from Sportsnet asks him, “Did you eat too much turkey this weekend, Zimmermann?”

 

Jack says, “I’m Canadian,” before walking past him into the locker room. He has maybe two minutes before they let in press, before they corner him in his stall.

 

Schultzy takes one look at Jack before saying, “Go shower, don’t come back ‘til they’re gone.”

 

“Thanks,” Jack says before undressing.

 

 

 

 

Pat says, “Sharpy told me that I’ve got a fan,” when Jack and Sharpy sit down in the booth.

 

“Gotta have at least one, Kaner,” Jonny says, before leaning towards Jack. “Nice game tonight.”

 

“Fuck,” Jack laughs, rubs at the back of his neck. “You too.”

 

Sharpy had been on edge all week, but he’d been welcomed back into the UC with roaring cheers, and has had a smile plastered on his face since. “It’s nice to actually meet you, for real,” Jack says.

 

“Getting my ass handed to me by you and Parson ten years ago didn’t count?”

 

“Course not,” Pat says. “We won today, why the fuck wouldn’t you wanna lead with that?”

 

“In a shootout,” Sharpy says. “Hardly counts.”

 

“If wishes were horses,” Pat says, shrugging. “So like, you still crazy?” Pat widens his eyes and inhales sharply through his nose.

 

“Kaner, Jesus,” Sharpy says, and Jack surprises himself by laughing.

 

“I mean, I-- I never did cocaine,” Jack says, pulling a glass of water towards him from the center of the table. When he looks up, all three of them have wide eyes on him.

 

“What?” Sharpy says. “D’you mean that I’ve been refraining from calling you Cracker Jack because of something you never did?”

 

 

“I still—I—Hi, I’m Jack, and I’m an addict,” he recites, his palms sweaty.

 

“Nice, Kaner. The fuck,” Jonny says. “Dude, it’s fine. He’s an asshole.”

 

“I’m right here,” Pat says. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

 

Jack shakes his head. “No, no, it’s fine. I was fucked up, but the media, you know,” he waves at Pat, who grins like a maniac. “I don’t really wanna—“ He looks out across the bar, which is quiet enough, but not quiet enough that people haven’t noticed them. They’re getting their space, for now, but Jack’s never been to Chicago before and he doesn’t know either of them and—

 

“First round’s on me,” Pat says. “For being a dick. I am sorry. And,” he says, gesturing. “Sharpy texted me about your friend, we’ve got some stuff for him in the car.”

 

“You didn’t have to do that,” Jack says as Pat stands and pats at his back pocket for his wallet.

 

“Nah way, dude. Friend of Sharpy’s is a friend of ours.”

 

He comes back a few minutes later with three pints balanced in his hands and bottle of water tucked under his arm. He slides the beers across to Sharpy and Jack, and the tosses the water to Jonny.

 

They talk about the game, and about Sharpy’s kids, the rest of the Blackhawks, and how much Sharpy misses good pizza.

 

Jack zones out a bit, happy to listen to Sharpy catch up with them. Jack is on his third beer when his phone buzzes in his pocket, and he pulls it out of his jeans.

 

_Nice shoot out goal!_

_thanks bittle_ , he types.

 

He looks across the table, catches Jonny looking at him.

 

“Can I, uh, sorry, can I take a photo?” Jack asks. “Is that weird?”

 

“Hell no it ain’t weird,” Pat says. “Can I tweet it if it’s cool?”

 

Jack shrugs, and Sharpy waves down a server to take a picture of them leaning together at the rounded back of the booth. “Thanks,” Jack says, taking his phone back.

 

“No problem, sweetie,” she says, smiling.

 

 _look who i found he writes_ , and attaches the photo.

 

It takes a few minutes before Bittle answers with a string of exclamation marks. Jack smiles, and slips his phone back into his pocket.

 

 

 

Jack gets up to hunt down their server to order a pitcher to the table while on his way to the washroom. It’s not until he’s weaving his way back through the bar that he gets why Sharpy asked him to join them.

 

Sharpy’s still sitting where Jack left him, leaning against the booth’s back, beer loose in his hand. But—

 

Jonny has arm along the back of the booth behind him, and his hand is resting on Pat’s far shoulder, fingers touching softly at Pat’s collarbone. And Jack can’t see, not for real, but he’s sure that Pat’s hand is on Jonny’s leg under the table. It’s not crass; Jonny’s been drinking water all night and Pat’s been nursing his last beer for the better part of an hour. It’s comfortable, and when Jack manages to move his feet again to make his way back to the table, Jonny catches his eye, and smiles softly.

 

 

 

 

Sharpy is hugging Jonny when Pat slides up next to Jack, one hand in his coat sleeve and says, “It gets easier.”

 

“Pardon?” Jack asks, turning towards him. Jonny and Sharpy are holding each other’s faces and messing with each other’s hair.

 

“Hiding, or not. Dealing with it all. I don’t know, all of it. It just—it’ll be better. It’s easier when someone else can carry the load for you.”

 

“I don’t—“

 

Pat fixes Jack with a harsher look than Jack thought he’d be capable of, and he says, “It took us a long time to get our shit together, you know. But, listen. It’s like, broken noses, collarbones, right? Everything sets if you give it enough time.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack’s first Christmas on his own is the loneliest he’s felt in a long time. He spends the day in his apartment, his hands shaking no matter how busy he makes himself.

 

He spends three hours researching dog breeds, and eats leftover Thai for dinner.

 

 

 

 

 

 

They win against Nashville at home on the 27th, and win against Calgary on the 2nd. They tie the Islanders, and Jack totals at six points in three games.

 

 

 

They lose 3-0 to Vegas at home, and Kent has to fly out right away, but he meets Jack’s eyes when they skate up to each other at the end of the game, and says, “You look exhausted, Jack. Remember that you don’t have to do everything, eh? Good game.”

 

 

 

 

They go on a four game road trip, and Tremble sprains his knee the last night when Kesler trips him outside the play.

 

Once he’s out of the box, Jack slams him into the boards. “Touch one of my guys again and you’ll fuckin’ regret it,’ he says.

 

Kesler shoves back. “Like to see you try, faggot.”

 

The linesman skates up behind Jack and says, “Knock it off, guys. Now.”

 

Jack steps backwards and moves to skate back to the bench.

 

“Thought so,” Kesler says from across the ice. “Freak.”

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

#  _viii: from holding so tight for so long_

 

 

 

Jack’s changing back into his street clothes after morning skate when Sharpy says, “You’re coming over to hang out with me and Sadie and we’re going to play Mario Kart until you develop carpal tunnel.”

 

“You clear that diagnosis with Dan?” Jack asks. He doesn’t have anything going on, though. “Want me to follow you home?”

 

“Sure,” Sharpy says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sharpy’s in the kitchen making soup and sandwiches for lunch, and Sadie is pressed into Jack’s side on the couch, flipping through a picture book and telling Jack about the bunny rabbit’s adventures.

 

“Tu est mon petite lapin,” Jack says, tickling her side. She giggles and thrashes until he stops, and she settles more firmly in his lap.

 

“If she goes missing I’m sending the cops after you,” Sharpy says when he brings their lunch into the living room. “Sadie, sit your bum closer to the table.”

 

Jack teaches Sadie to dip her crusts into her soup, and she nods along to everything he says to her, smiling and laughing and generally being the sweetest thing in Jack’s life.

 

“She likes you,” Sharpy says, once she’s left to apparently draw Jack a masterpiece portrait.

 

“Someone in your family was bound to have taste,” Jack says, taking the controller Sharpy hands him.

 

“You ever gonna do that?” He asks. “Have a family?”

 

Jack doesn’t respond right away, waits until he drives Sharpy off Rainbow Road before slowly saying, “I don’t get out much.”

 

Sharpy sighs. “You could have told me. You don’t have to talk about it, I’m not, like, your fuckin’ therapist. But, like, we’re friends, yeah?” Jack turns to look at Sharpy, but he’s looking off into the space in front of him, brow furrowed.

 

“Yeah, we’re friends.”

 

Sharpy turns to him, and grins. “Then that’s settled,” he says. “Now I’m actually going to kick your fat ass.”

 

 

 

 

“Hey,” Jack says into his phone, pushing his front door open with his hip. “What’s up?”

 

“Hey yourself,” Lardo says. “Good game yesterday.”

 

“Thanks,” Jack says. He toes off his shoes, tosses his keys onto the small table in the hall on his way to the kitchen. “How’re you doing?”

 

“Not bad,” she says. “You know.”

 

“Tell me anyway,” Jack says. “Can’t read your facial features through the phone.”

             

“I’m stuck on my installment piece, stuck on my thesis. Bits is stressed to the nines, which is freaking out the frogs. Shitty seems like he’s going insane, but he won’t talk to me about it.”

 

“Bittle’s stressed?”

 

Lardo sighs. “That is what you’d take away from that.”

 

Jack closes his eyes, leans his forehead against his closed fridge. “Sorry. Lardo, sorry. Are you doing alright?”

 

“Fine,” she says. “Tired, and the college love of my life is off being amazing without me but fine. You?”

 

“Lonely,” Jack says, “but--”

 

“But not alone.”

 

“Yeah,” Jack says.

 

“So like everyone else.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“My phone keeps correcting your name to Bottle,” Jack says, and Bittle laughs through the phone.

 

“I had a friend in high school who called me Enrique and her phone still autofills it.”

 

“One time my dad’s changed my mom’s name to ‘fajita,’ which is…not even close to ‘Alicia.’”

 

“How’re they doin’?” Bittle asks, and Jack rests his head on the back of his couch.

 

“Good, same old same, I think.” Bittle hums, and Jack says, “I’ve been thinking about asking my mom if she wants to come stay with me, for a bit.”

 

“That’ll be fun,” Bittle says. “When you’re back from your road trip? 6 away games, that’s rough.”

 

“Fucking Colorado,” Jack says. “I hate the fucking altitude.”

 

“You’ll be fine,” Bittle says, and he sounds fond.

 

“Tell me about literally anything unrelated to hockey,” Jack says. “Your classes are okay?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Anytime Jack interacts with Bittle, his chest still feels tight. He thought the warmth he feels in his cheeks would fade the farther he got from Samwell, but it doesn’t. When he gets snapchats of Bittle studying in Annie’s, he has to swallow past the lumps in his throat; anytime Bittle texts after a game, Jack feels reassured that he’s doing well; anytime Bittle’s name pops up on Jack’s caller ID, he drops whatever he’s doing to answer.

 

He still cares about Bittle just as much as he did when he was at Samwell, and he thought—

 

Jack thought it would be different, easier, that with every passing day, Jack’s affection would melt away into a remembered fondness and accessible friendship.

 

And that’s the thing, Jack supposes. Try all he might, he’s never had that strong of a grasp on what stays and what fades away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Kent calls the day before Valentine’s Day. “If I came out, would you make a statement?”

 

“Kenny, the fuck are you talking about?” It’s early for Jack, has to be way earlier for Kent. Jack guesses that it’s possible that he hasn’t been to bed yet.

 

“Yesterday, this fucking asshole from Nashville, some fucking beat reporting motherfucker, he just kept asking about where in the stands my girl was sitting.”

 

“Are you at home?” Jack asks. “Are you—”

 

“Fuck you, I’m not on drugs you fucking asshole.”

 

“How should I know,” Jack says. “What time is there, fucking 3:30? You sound—“

 

“I’m fucking exhausted,” he says, and Jack can hear the fight fall out of him. “I was thinking, like, I’ve got everything I ever wanted. My mom doesn’t work anymore, she’s got a garden that she loves, and my sister gets to study all she wants and won’t ever think about money, and I won the fucking Cup before you did. I’ve got all of it and I still—“

 

“You still what,” Jack says, angry without understanding why.

 

“I still don’t know how to be happy about it,” Kent says.

 

Jack is silent, and he tries to level his breathing while looking up at his bedroom ceiling.

 

He gets it, when it comes down to it, and he gets Kent in a way that no one else does, maybe—and sometimes you need the people who knew you when you were young, and they’re really no different from anyone else. “There isn’t anything I can do about that,” Jack says. “I cared about you a lot, but my hands still shake all the time. That was never about touching you.”

 

Kent’s breathing is slow, even and purposeful, and it lulls Jack. He doesn’t need to be anywhere until after 1 o’clock, he could go back to sleep. “Sorry for calling,” Kent says, finally.

 

“Don’t be sorry,” Jack says, but Kent’s voice is quiet when he says, “I didn’t mean to bother you.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is on the bike when Schultzy sits next to him. He punches the buttons until he has the settings he wants, and then turns to stare at Jack.

 

Jack pulls his headphones out with one hand and slows down. “What?”

 

“Dan and I were talking,” he says, but doesn’t say anything else.

 

“About…plays? Something I can help with?”

 

“He, George and Chris wanted to know about what I thought about naming a Captain.”

 

“Hey, that’s great. You’d be good for it, you’ve helped me a lot. I’m sure the rest of the guys would say the same.”

 

Schultzy laughs. “Nuh uh, dude. Not me. You.”

 

Jack blinks. “Me?”

 

“For next season, obviously, but yeah, man. You’ve really showed up for us, and you carry yourself well, and you’re a chill dude. You’ll have to hang out with us a bit more, come out for beers more than once every two months, but, I mean, they seemed serious about it.” Schultzy shrugs. “I wanted to give you a heads up.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Dallas is hot and dry and Jack hates everything about it.

 

Jack knows that Kent is buddies with Seguin, but otherwise he doesn’t know much about the guy other than the fact that he and Benn are fucking unstoppable when they get going. The plan, obviously, is to not let them get that far, but when their bus pulls up outside the American Airlines Center, Jack knows it’s going to be a battle.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The energy that the two of them have brought to their franchise honestly amazes Jack; they’re in a non-traditional market, and Dallas has enough passionate sports fans that it would be easy for hockey to fall to the wayside. Still, when Jack steps onto the ice for warm-up, he can feel the excitement.

 

Jack loves playing hockey—he loves that he’s lucky enough to say that this is his job, his career; his childhood dream is the reality that he lives every single day—but it isn’t often that the prospect of fighting and possibly losing sounds fun.

 

But Dallas is a young team just like the Falconers are: they’ve had to rebuild, they’ve had dramatic trades, and they want to prove that they’re good. All of it has Jack’s blood pumping before the puck even drops.

 

 

 

 

Jack takes a stupid hooking penalty late in the first, and Jamie Benn has the puck in the back of the Falcs’ net faster than Jack had expected. When their power play runs out, Jack takes a pass from Webs, spins around Klingberg and tips the sweetest goal past Lehtonen. Darth smashes into Jack’s back, and Jack splits into a smile.

 

“Fucking beaut,” he says, patting Jack on the back and skating back to the bench with him.

 

 

Dallas wins 3-2, but Jack played well, everyone else did too, and Jack had more fun than he’s had in a while. The entire sixty minutes on the ice felt like how Jack remembers hockey feeling when he was a kid—sweaty and fun and like the only thing that has ever mattered.

 

 

Benn waves at Jack before the press swoop in, and Jack skates over to him.

 

 

“Cool goal,” Jamie says, and Jack smiles.

 

“You too,” he says, pulling off his gloves.

 

“I wanted to say, uhm, good game. It’s cool to see you playing again. Me and my brother have followed you since we were young. Ty’s also obsessed with your mom, he and Jordie’ve been talking about it for like two weeks.”

 

“Me and my roommates watched you clinch the Art Ross last year,” Jack says, and he feels embarrassed as all hell. “You guys’re playing a great game.”

 

“We try,” Jamie says. Seguin skates up to them, knocks his shoulders into Benn’s and nods in Jack’s direction.

 

“Sup, dude?”

 

“Your cap was just telling me that you’re in love with my mom,” Jack says. “No offense, but she’s way too good for your sad ass.”

 

Seguin blushes, but shrugs and says, “Jameson’s just jealous.”

 

Benn colors at that, but he chuckles softly. He swings his arm over Seguin’s shoulder, and Jack thinks _oh_ , even though he doesn’t know what it means. “Anyway,” Jamie says. “I wanted to say good game. We were talking today about how you and Sharp have really shown up, so congrats and stuff.”

 

“Thank you,” Jack says.

 

“Maybe we’ll be able to fight to be Jamie’s center next time the Olympics come around,” Seguin says.

 

“Fingers crossed,” Jack says.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jack,” Georgia says. “Thanks for coming in to see me.”

 

“Sure,” Jack says, sitting across from her. She finishes typing something on her laptop before closing it, folding her hands over it and fixing him with a look.

 

“So,” she says. “How’re you feeling?”

 

“Uh,” Jack says. “Good. Shoulder’s a bit sore from that hit yesterday, but Carter looked at it and said it’s fine.”

 

“Glad to hear,” she says.

 

Jack likes Georgia; she’s smart and she’s damn good at her job, and she had looked at the wreckage of Jack’s life and wanted to work with him anyway, and he’ll be indebted to her for his entire career.

 

But sitting across from her, he’s scared and he can’t pinpoint why. He moves to sit on his hands to keep from fidgeting, and asks, “Is something wrong?”

 

“No,” she says. “But I wanted to talk to you about this before anyone else brought it up to you, as we’ve had more involved conversations about it before.”

 

“I… uhm, okay.”

 

She pulls a folder out from under her laptop and flips a few pages over before spinning it so that Jack can read it. He leans forward, scanning the pages before looking back up at her.

 

“You want me to talk about my overdose to the public?”

 

“We’ve been talking about PR avenues for the franchise as a whole, and obviously you’re a huge part of that. When we name you Captain next season, we want to have something to run with, something the public can latch onto. It’s obviously not something that we let journalists ask about normally, but we think it’ll be great for your own name, to force anyone who doesn’t like you as the face of our franchise to reconsider.”

 

Jack takes a deep and shaky breath.

 

“Obviously this is a big thing to consider,” she says, slowly. “I don’t want you to feel like we’re forcing you into anything, but your press, to date, has been pretty tame. You’re really good at redirecting questions you don’t want to answer, and we thought you could handle it. We could set up a closed interview with any number of people. Chris suggested seeing if you wanted to write an open letter.”

 

“Oh,” Jack says.

 

“You’re the only guy on our roster who has a degree, which is something else we want to push. Education and hockey should co-exist, yadda yadda.”

 

“I—Can I think about it? I should, uh, probably talk to my parents, and like, my agent.”

 

“Of course. At the very least, we’re hoping to at least correct the cocaine storyline, if that’s something you’re comfortable with.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Gallagher knocks Jack into the boards and Jack’s helmet gets knocked from his head. Jack tries to shoulder him away, but he forces his weight back onto Jack, and Jack’s head hits the glass.

 

It’s not hard enough to do any real damage, Jack thinks, but it still hurts.

 

Jack kicks at the puck to move the play away from him, and Gallagher says, “Figured you’d be better at being roughed up, considering.”

 

“Fuck you,” Jack says, skating away from the Montreal net and towards the bench.

 

“Ah, c’mon Jacky boy, can’t you take a joke? Or does your boyfriend not know how to tell jokes?”

 

Jack turns around and shoves at his shoulders. “The fuck is your problem?” Jack’s parents are watching, he knows that they’re sitting with management and that his whole extended family is probably watching, and he doesn’t like to fight, doesn’t think it’s what the games about, but—

 

“Nothing,” he says, shoving Jack. “What’s yours?”

 

“You’re a piece of shit, no wonder you didn’t get the C.”

 

“At least I’ve never let Parson put it in my ass,” he says, and Jack punches him.

 

Darth is at Gallagher’s back, pulls his helmet off, and Jack hits him again in the nose.

 

His fist hits Jack in the eye, but then Darth pulls him away from Jack, and the officials break them all up.

 

Jack’s eyebrow is bleeding, but he takes the ten-minute misconduct without protest.

 

 

 

 

 

 

His eye is swollen shut by the time the med staff check his head and stitch up his eyebrow.

 

 

 

 

 

 

“C’était quoi, ça?” Bob says when he meets Jack outside the Visitors locker room.

 

“Rien,” Jack says, not meeting his dad’s eye.

 

“Jack,” he says, tone firm.

 

“Sorry I’m not you, okay? I don’t give a shit if you’re pissed, you have no fucking idea what it’s like, the shit they say to me.”

 

“Hey,” his dad says, reaching for Jack, and Jack shakes his hand from his shoulder.

 

“I gotta go, the bus is waiting, we’re flying out right away, I told you.”

 

“Jack,” Bob says, again. “Tais-toi.”

 

Jack hoists his gear bag onto his shoulder, and meets his dad’s eye. “Sorry, okay? Sorry. I actually do need to leave. Where’s mama?”

 

“She went to get the car,” he says. “We assumed you’d have time for dinner.”

 

“I can’t,” he says. “Plane leaves in like an hour.”

 

“I love you very much, Jack,” his dad says, and Jack lets him hug him before he steps back.

 

“Je t’aime aussi, papa. Mais j’ai besion vraiment partir.”

 

“Call tomorrow. Try to get some rest.”

 

 

 

 

Jack wakes up the next morning to a text message from Bittle that says, _I hope you’re feeling okay. Let me know if there’s anything I can do. We all miss you, and we’re all proud of you._

 

Jack rolls over in bed and looks up at the ceiling of his bedroom. He presses his fingers into the bruise under his eye, bites his lip at the sting of it, and then presses hard before stopping.

 

Jack holds his phone above his face and types out, _just a black eye_. He hits send, but because he already feels wrung out and the day has only just started, he sends a second message that says, _i miss you too, bittle._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is showering after practice when he notices his heart is beating too fast. When he tries to lather shampoo into his growing hair, his hands are shaking.

 

He can hear Webs laughing, saying, “Linds, oh my god, stop,” as Tremble holds the back of Web’s shirt over his face; he can hear Sharpy on the phone with Abby. It’s all normal except for the fact that his skin feels like it’s crawling.

 

He rinses the soap out of his hair and towels off as quickly as he can.

 

He slips on his shoes on and pulls his hat down low over his eyes.

 

Jack has spent most of his life being nervous, anxious and worried; panic attacks are so much worse—it’s a wholly different experience to feel like you’re sitting inside of yourself, looking out of your eyes and trying to cringe every time someone looks your way. Trying not to flinch when someone walks in your direction.

 

He squeezes his fingers tight around the straps on his bag and he jumps when Schultzy says, “See ya, Jazz,” and he leaves without responding.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack knows that to get what he wants, he has to sacrifice other things; he knows that everyone has their own shit, that everyone is right there at the very brink of their pain limit. He’s tired and he’s lonely and he knows he should be happier.

 

 

 

 

 

Being an anxious person is hard, but being an anxious kid may have been worse. He knows he’s got issues about being compared to his dad, knows that the pills and the drinking and hiding in the closet are a part of him like anything else, but when he thinks back to his childhood he can’t remember being happy in the way that he wants to be.

 

Shitty likes to wax poetic about ice cream and being on the water, of not being aware of any of the shit going on with his dad; he talks about a simplicity that Jack doesn’t think he ever had.

 

Jack has purpose and he’s proud to be doing what he’s doing, but he’s never wanted life to be something he just had to live through.

 

Eating dinner while sitting on his kitchen counter and listening to Van Morrison from his record player isn’t the worst thing in the world, but it doesn’t change the fact that there are never dishes left in the sink, never anyone else’s socks mixed in with his laundry, never the sound of anyone in the shower, singing under the spray.

 

Some days are harder than others, but Jack has spent his entire life fighting with himself; it’s not fun, but he’s spent his entire life playing through the hurt.

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

#  _ix: a story from yesterday evening_

 

**Zimmermann: I’ve Never Done Cocaine**

deadspin.com, 25 March 2016

 

Center forward for the Providence Falconer’s Jack Zimmermann spoke out about his past addiction struggle in an editorial piece published on the Sports Illustrated website.

 

“I was hospitalized because of an overdose,” he wrote. “That’s true, but it wasn’t cocaine. When I was playing with Rimouski, I was dealing with an extreme anxiety disorder. I was over-medicating and drinking, and obviously that didn’t end well. I still struggle with my mental health, but I felt that it was prudent to try to open discussion around athletics and mental health, and this felt like an accessible avenue.”

Read more of Zimmermann’s essay here, and join the conversation with us on twitter @deadspin.

 

You Can Play Project @YouCanPlayTeam

Inspiring and brave essay by Falconers’ Jack Zimmermann about mental health and hockey http://sportsillustrated.com/editorial/j-z…

 

Patrick Sharp @10PSharp

Super proud of my boy Zimmy pic.twitter.com/photo/78804…

 

Deadspin @deadspin

B Zimmermann: “We let the media control the cocaine narrative because it meant Jack got privacy.”

 

NHL @NHL

“It’s horrible to feel like you’ve failed your child. Alicia and I are very proud of Jack.” - Bob Zimmermann

 

Chicago Blackhawks @NHLBlackhawks

Toews: “Jack’s a good guy, and an amazing hockey player. I’m glad he’s in a better spot.”

 

NHL @NHL

Canadian players show support for Zimmermann www.nhl.com/news/zimmer…

 

Los Vegas Aces @LVAces

“Jack’s my oldest friend. He’s brave and I’m proud of him.” –Kent Parson

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

  


#  _x: the wretched life of a lonely heart_

 

“Jack!” Ransom screams though the computer screen. Holster is sprawled behind him on the couch, and is chanting “Zimmermann, Zimmermann,” with increasing volume.

 

“We love you so much,” Lardo says, smiling.

 

“Hi, hi, yes, thank you,” Jack says, trying to speaking through his laughter.

 

“Your life must be fucking insane,” Holster says. “Jesus.”

 

“Honestly, I’ve had my phone turned off for like three days,” Jack says, shrugging.

 

“Ah,” Ransom and Holster say in unison.

 

“Everything is making a lot more sense.” The three of them turn away from the computer to look at something Jack can’t see, and Lardo says, “Speak of the devil.”

 

“Excuse you, Larissa,” Bittle says, and Jack laughs.

 

“Jack’s skyping,” Holster says, and Bittle squawks before leaning over the back of the couch.

 

He waves, and Jack says, “Hey Bittle.”

 

“He’s had his phone off since the article went up,” Ransom says.

 

Bittle nods, but winces a bit. “I tried calling.”

 

“Sorry,” Jack says. “I had a few days off so I haven’t really left my house.”

 

“Other than destroying the internet, how’s it goin’?” Lardo asks, leaning forward to tilt her laptop so that more Bittle’s face fits on the screen.

 

Jack lifts his shoulders. “I’m going to look at a bunch of baby dogs tomorrow.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Jack, you sweet, small cactus,” Shitty says. “I cannot believe you fucking dropped that bomb on the common folk.” Jack laughs and backs out of his parking space at Brown. “And,” Shitty says, “apparently you fucking wrecked the Caps tonight, which I haven’t watched yet but my roomie was screaming the whole time.”

 

“I’m driving home now,” Jack says. “Lindsey’s knee has been bugging him again, which isn’t awesome if we manage to secure a playoff spot.”

 

“I wish you were cooler, man. His last name’s Tremble and you just call him by his first name. So much wasted opportunity, dude.”

 

“Sharpy’s got nicknames for everyone. Can I tell you a secret?”

 

“Fucking yes.”

 

“They offered me the C for next season.”

 

“Jack,” Shitty yells. “Jack, Jack, I love you, Jack! Jack!”

 

Jack laughs. “I know. I know. It’s crazy.”

 

“It’s not,” Shitty says. “It’s amazing and you deserve it.”

 

“Tell me about you,” Jack says. “I miss your nasty moustache.”

 

“I’m gonna ask Lardo to live with me,” he practically whispers, and Jack’s happy that he’s on the Bluetooth because his grip gets sweaty, his throat tight.

 

“That’s,” Jack says, and clears his throat. “That’s great, Shits.”

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

  
  


#  _xi: one small atomic bomb_

 

Jack is skating in a wide circle with Hacter on the way to the net when he spots them in the second row.

 

They’ve got eight seats near the Boston net, and when he spots them, they all cheer and wave. Ransom and Holster have even deigned to wear Falc’s jerseys rather than any of the Bruins stuff Jack knows they both own. Chowder, Dex, and Nursey are wearing matching Falcs’ hats and facepaint.

 

Bittle is wearing Jack’s Samwell jersey, and Jack holds his eye for a long moment before turning with Benny and skating with him to the net.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Regulation ends in a tie, and Jack doesn’t score, but he gets assists on both Darth and Tribby’s goals. They go to a shoot out, and Boston takes it, but it’s not an emotional loss for Jack.

 

He does a few post-game interviews and talks about how they’re working to improve their penalty kills. McGuire gets into his space a bit more than Jack likes, but he doesn’t keep Jack for long.

 

 

 

Jack is quiet while he showers, but he can feel a smile tugging at his cheeks anyway.

 

“What’re you so happy about?” Schultzy says.

 

“His gang’s all here, didn’t you see em? Loudest assholes in here.”

 

Jack throws his shampoo bottle at Sharpy. “They were cheering for us, you bitch.”

 

“Oh my god,” Webs says. “Jack has friends? I thought you were, like, this cranky old dude who yelled at all the neighborhood kids to stay off your yard.”

 

“Whatever, they’re all way better at drinking games than you fuckin’ idiots. They live in a frat house.”

 

Tremble cracks his knuckles and says, “It’s fuckin’ on.”

 

 

 

 

They start at a bar not far from the Garden; Sharpy pays for shots like he’s not going to have to front the cost of tuition one day, and he throws his arm across Bittle’s shoulders like they’ve been friends for years.

 

Bittle’s eyes go wide at first, but once he has a few drinks, his face flushed even in the low lighting of the bar, he seems more comfortable with the idea of hanging with Jack’s teammates.

 

“Jack said y’all’re weak at drinking games,” Bittle says to Webber, and Darth says, “Like that fucker would know.”

 

Bittle looks over to Ransom, who nods and smacks Shitty’s arm. “Hey Lardo,” Ransom says. “Roxanne?”

 

“Fuck yeah,” she says.

 

 

 

 

“It’s easy,” Jack explains. “Every time the Police sing the word ‘Roxanne,’ they’ll drink,” he points to where Holster has lined them all up on one side of an unused pool table, shots and beers organized in front of them. “And then when they sing the line ‘turn on the red light,’ we drink.”

 

“How come you’re with them?” Bittle says, pouting.

 

“We are but lowly and amateurish, right Jack?” Schultzy says. “We need all the help we can get.”

 

Jack hears Bittle whisper, “He’s twice our size,” to Lardo, who shrugs.

 

“Bigger you are, the harder you fall,” Lardo whispers back.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is sitting alone in a booth with most of their coats when Bittle slides in next to him. “Hi,” he says, flushed. “I four ordered waters and two fireball shots. Figured they evened out enough.”

 

“Jesus,” Jack says, leaning his head back in the booth.

 

“Sharpy offered,” Bittle says. “Which is crazy, Patrick Sharp buying us drinks. This is crazy.”

 

“He likes you,” Jack says, not opening his eyes.

 

He’s not drunk enough to have the spins, but time feels different behind his eyelids, and he’s not sure how much time has passed when he hears Bittle say, “Thank you so much,” before sliding glasses towards Jack.

 

“Water, shot, water,” Jack says. “Chug, wait a few minutes, shoot, then sip.”

 

“Roger that,” Bittle says, shifting closer to Jack.

 

Jack opens his eyes and picks up a glass of water. He’s thirstier than he thought, and it’s easy to empty the glass.

 

They sit in comfortable silence for a few minutes, Bittle looking around the bar and smiling at Jack whenever he looks back towards him. Jack taps the table top with his index finger, and Bittle looks down.

 

“On three?”

 

Bittle smirks at Jack and then says, “Three,” before throwing back the shot.

 

 

 

 

“You’re killin’ me,” Lardo says, sliding in beside Jack. He looks at her and follows her gaze to Bittle and Sharpy at the bar.

 

Jack groans. “Can we not do this?”

 

“I just want you both to be happy,” she says. “Most days I get it, that you both think that this is better, but it’s not. He’s miserable and there’s a meme about how you can’t smile.” Jack puts his head in his hands, presses the heel of his hands into his eyes until he sees red, black, white. Lardo’s hand touches the middle of Jack’s back, her fingers tapping along to the tune of the music from across the bar.

 

“It wouldn’t be fair,” he says. “I can’t ask him to give up what he would have to.”

 

“What you’re doing to both of you now isn’t fair either,” she says, taking a sip from Jack’s half-finished beer.

 

She digs her chin into Jack’s arm, rests her cheek against him, and Jack says, “Consequences aren’t as bad now, though.”

 

 

 

 

Their server comes around for last call, and Jack settles the rest of their bill. “What time d’you leave?” Bittle asks, shrugging into his coat.

 

“Bus leaves at nine, I’m pretty sure,” Jack says. “Where’re you all staying?”

 

“Shitty’s got Lardo with him all weekend, the rest of us got an airbnb that’s not far from here.”

 

“Check out at 11?” Jack asks, and Bittle nods. “Wanna get food before you go back? I know it’s late but,” Jack shrugs. “I can cab you back to wherever you need after.”

 

Bittle nods, smiling softly. “Let’s go.”

 

 

Jack orders a turkey club and Bittle gets a full pancake breakfast. Jack steals a piece of Bittle’s bacon, dips it into the syrup on the corner of Bittle’s plate. When Bittle makes a face, Jack says, “Try it,” before holding the rest of Bittle’s food hostage until he does.

 

Jack presses his ankle to Bittle’s under the table, and Bittle presses back. They drink mint teas and talk about Bittle’s course work, his mom, Jack’s parents.

 

“What’re you planning for the summer?” Bittle asks as he throws down a bill for their food. When Jack tries to protest, Bittle says, “let me buy one thing.”

 

“I don’t know,” Jack says. “I haven’t thought about it. Montreal, I guess.”

 

“You should go on vacation.”

 

“Where would I go?” Jack says. “I don’t want to travel with my parents.”

 

“Where do you want to go?”

 

Jack shrugs. “What about you?”

 

“Home, probably. I don’t know. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life next week, let alone what I’ll do in the summer. I should probably look at Co-Ops or something.”

 

They leave the diner and are walking towards Jack’s hotel when Jack says, “Wait, which direction are you in?”

 

“Oh, uhm,” Bittle stops walking, spins around on the sidewalk. He laughs. “I have no idea. How come I don’t know my way around here? The Haus is like, an hour away. I’m a terrible Bostonian.”

 

“You are not a Bostonian,” Jack laughs, and Bittle looks affronted. Jack holds up his hands. “Hey, neither am I. Our accents kinda kill our chances, don’t you think?”

 

“How far away are you?” Bittle asks.

 

“Ten minutes this way,” Jack says. “Wanna call a cab from there?”

 

“Sure.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack’s not stupid, but that doesn’t mean he does it on purpose, either.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Thought you guys had road roomies,” Bittle says as Jack swipes his door key.

 

“Some of the guys do. I think it’s just me and Schultzy who’re alone.”

 

“Why?”

 

Jack holds the door open and Bittle ducks under his arm to walk into the room. “They offered, I don’t know. I figured it was better than rooming with a snorer or whatever.”

 

Jack locks the door, and says, “Help yourself to, like, bottled water or whatever. I’m just gonna—“ he gestures to the washroom, and Bittle waves him off, folding his coat over the back of the desk chair.

 

Jack changes into his pajama pants and a t-shirt, pisses and brushes his teeth. He’s setting his alarm on his phone when he comes out of the washroom to Bittle sitting up against the headboard, flipping through the TV channels.

 

“Pick what you want,” Jack says, and then for propriety’s sake adds, “when do you want me to call for a cab?”

 

Bittle shrugs. “Whenever you want,” he says without looking at Jack. Jack tugs one of the pillows out from behind Bittle’s back, and pulls back the edge of the bedding to climb under.

 

“Don’t let me fall asleep,” he says, but he’s laying on his side and can’t really see the TV. He’s tired.

 

 

 

 

Jack wakes up before his alarm is set to go off; the room is still dark.

 

At some point, Bittle took off his jeans and climbed under the blankets. Jack is pressed along Bittle’s back, and he removes his arm from where it’s been draped over Bittle’s ribs before rolling onto his back.

 

“Hmm, no,” Bittle says, reaching back for Jack’s arm blindly. He wraps his fingers around Jack’s wrist and tugs him back towards him. “No one’s here,” he mumbles. “Doesn’t count.”

 

Jack would huff a breath, chirp him to distance himself, but his eyelids are still heavy, and they have an hour at least until they need to be awake.

 

“Okay,” Jack whispers, voice hoarse and barely there. He scoots his hips in behind Bittle, slots them together, and falls back to sleep.

 

 

 

 

When his alarm does sound, Jack feels groggy and exhausted. He reaches behind him without opening his eyes and gropes for his phone. He must manage to hit snooze, because the noise stops.

 

When he opens his eyes, Bittle is blinking at him. “Hey,” Jack says, licking his lips and blinking the sleep from his eyes.

 

Bittle’s calf is trapped between Jack’s, his toes pressed into Jack’s ankle. The fingers of his right hand are under the back of Jack’s shirt, but his hand is still, like he doesn’t realize it’s there.

 

Bittle says, “Is this okay?” and his voice is scratchy, stiff with sleep, and Jack has to close his eyes against the rush of affection he feels. He nods even as he’s realizing that the scale of his feelings is enormous.

 

Bittle’s finger’s squeeze at Jack’s side, and his breath catches. “Sleep while I shower,” Jack says.

 

 

 

 

 

When Jack comes out of the shower—dressed and feeling better than he should for how much he drank and how little he slept—Bittle is dressed and sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone. When he hears Jack, he looks up at him, and Jack suddenly feels like shit.

 

He looks wrecked, sad in a way that Jack thinks he knows too well, and Jack wants to back away, take back the last day. Even taking only a fraction of a moment to pretend he could have what he wants is enough to destroy what’s important to him.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jack says, leaning against the doorway.

 

Bittle runs his hand through his hair before he shakes his head. “It’s not your fault,” he says, but huffs. “Or, it is your fault,” he looks up at Jack, a sad smile barely on his lips, “but I don’t blame you.”

 

“Maybe you should,” Jack says. “It’d be easier if you did.”

 

“I understand why this is better,” Bittle says. “It just doesn’t feel like it actually is, all the time. Better.”

 

And Jack can’t pretend like he feels good about it, like it’s something that’s okay for him, so he says, “But it’s not the worst it could be, either.”

 

“Yeah,” Bittle says. “I know.”

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is eating a yogurt cup that he stole from the continental breakfast, his duffel bag at his feet in the lobby, when Schultzy comes to stand with him.

 

“You could’ve told us, you know,” he says. Jack looks at him, worried until he sees Ira’s broad smile breaking across his cheeks. “Everything makes a lot more sense, I guess.”

 

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Jack says.

 

“Don’t do that,” Schultzy says. “C’mon, he’s nice, we just didn’t know.”

 

Jack shakes his head. “There’s nothing to know.”

 

Schultzy frowns and his eyebrows pinch together. “But—“

 

“Please,” Jack says, his voice cracking. “Can we just—“

 

“Shit,” Schultzy says. “Shit, Jack, yeah. I, fuck. Sorry.”

 

Jack sighs, and goes back to his yoghurt.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Falconers secure their playoff spot when they beat the Pens 4-2.

 

It’s the first time they’ve made the playoffs in four years. Malkin shakes Jack’s hand at the end of the game and says, “Very fun watch you grow into self,” before slapping Jack’s shoulder.

 

Crosby says, “Can’t wait to kick your ass,” but he’s smiling and Jack laughs.

 

Chris and Dan both thank Jack for all his hard work, and then tell him that they’re going to bench him for the last six games of the regular season to rest him.

 

“Relax a bit,” Georgia says. “Do something for you.”

 

 

 

Jack picked her because of her breed. He wasn’t sure about it, kind of wanted to adopt a dog, but his mom had forwarded him articles about therapy dogs and companion dogs. She’s an Australian Labradoodle, which meant nothing to Jack until he’d done all the reading his mom had sent. They don’t shed, they like exercise but can sit still for long periods of time. Basically all Jack needs to know is that they like to be with people and are okay left on their own for long enough that Jack wouldn’t need to worry about leaving her at home to go to a game.

 

He’s already looked up dog sitting companies in the city.

 

He brings her home when she’s eight and half weeks old, and names her Marguerite.

 

He’s on the phone with his mom, who says, “don’t let her sleep on the bed, no matter what you do,” but Jack is on his side in the middle of his bed, and she’s tucked into the space between his arm and his chest.

 

“Okay, mama,” he says. “I gotta go, though.”

 

“I love you, baby,” she says. “I’m proud of you.”

 

“I love you too,” he says. “Sleep well.”

 

Marguerite keens a bit when Jack moves to plug his phone in and drop it onto his bedside table.

 

  
  


 

When he wakes up in the morning, she’s still pressed into him, cozy and soft and the smallest thing he’s ever loved.

 

“Petite ange,” he says, petting her hair. “C’mon baby, outside. Let’s go.”

 

He puts her on her little leash and takes her out onto the sidewalk. She doesn’t have all her immunizations yet, so he can’t take her far, but she sniffs at the grass outside. When he carries her back up to his condo, he unleashes her and she scampers across the hardwood.

 

And it’s not the same—this still doesn’t quite feel like a home, but Jack feels like he belongs here all the same. He’s going to be playing in the Stanley Cup playoffs, he’s going to get named captain at the start of next season.

 

Waking up to a dog in your bed isn’t the same as sharing your life with someone. Jack knows that. But Marguerite needs him, and he’s only known her for a day but he loves her already, and it’ll have to do.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He takes a picture of Marguerite on her back with her paws in the air and sends it to Sharpy and Bittle.

 

A few minutes later, his phone is vibrating, and he swipes to answer it.

 

“Bittle, hey.”

 

“It’s like you want me to suffer,” he says, but Jack can hear the smile in his voice. “You actually got a dog.”

 

“She’s a good bro,” Jack says. “I mean, she pees on the floor more than I was expecting, but she’s really funny. You’d like her.”

 

“What’s her name?” Bittle asks. Jack lifts her with one hand and rests her down on his chest.

 

“Marguerite. She’s going to grow a lot.”

 

“That’s what they told me,” Bittle says. “My entire life.”

 

Jack laughs. “How’s school going?”

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

 

#  _xii: nothing to do with explosions_

 

 

Mcguire asks, “And how’re you feeling?”

 

“Really excited,” Jack says. “It’s an honor just to be here. We’re happy to be here as a team.”

 

“The Falconers’ have had a great season, much better than the last few years.”

 

“Being a young team is hard, but Dan’s really worked us hard, and we plan to show what we’re made of.”

 

Mcguire nods. “Anything you want to get out of your first playoff experience?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “Hockey’s the love of my life,” he says. “I’m just happy to be here.”

 


	3. with the whole world waiting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ira says, “Light it up, Jazzy,” and Jack nods. 
> 
> “You too, Schultzy,” he says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the only warning i can think of that applies to this chapter that doesn't apply to the previous two is found in some of jack's thoughts about another character. i don't think it's major, and i think you'll know it when you see it, but there is some nastiness there. however, i think it has more to do with his mental state rather than ideology etc (however minor, idk). either way, heads up for that.
> 
> i wrote pretty much all of this while listening to bon iver's 'heavenly father,' which is on [the playlist](http://8tracks.com/tiny-dakota/of-the-nature-of-the-wound) i made for this story. 
> 
> i owe an immense and endless thank you to alex. the reason you're reading this is because of her. two weeks ago, this last chapter was an entirely different set of 20k words that wouldn't wrap up the way that i wanted them to, and alex helped with that. when i deleted most of what i had, she sat with me in starbucks and let me talk about it. she texted me about it, she sat with me and drank multiple bottles of wine, sat in multiple bars and on multiple patios while i threw ideas around. she read the mess that is my moleskin and let me talk it out. when my own brain sabotaged this story about a brain sabotaging a journey, alex dug it out of me. also, she's the best person i've ever met and i'm lucky enough to get to look at her beautiful face on the reg. i draw inspiration from her everyday. 
> 
> and to kelli and quinn, who are supportive and generous like no others. thank you.
> 
> and thanks to all of you, for sticking with this, for encouraging this, for (seemingly) enjoying this. it wasn't always fun to write, but some of the reactions i've gotten are honestly baffling, and they mean so much.  
> ♡♡♡

#  _i: dans nos cœurs essoufflés_

Upon reflection, it probably wasn’t an awesome idea to get a dog five weeks before playoffs.

 

Jack’s not impulsive. His dad thinks he’s a fucking idiot, which is fine, it’s something Jack can deal with, but it wasn’t on a whim.

 

Getting a dog was--

 

It was safer than any alternative.

 

Jack would rather his dad think him an idiot than--

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

“But why,” his dad asks. “Jack, this isn’t like you.”

 

“Of course it is,” Jack says, phone pressed between his shoulder and his ear. Marguerite is half on top of his lap on the couch, and he has SportsCenter paused. “I always used to ask to for a dog. Just because you never did doesn’t mean I can’t now.”

 

Jack can hear his dad taking deep breaths on the other end of the phone. The silence stretches for long enough that Jack can feel his heart rate increase. When his dad exhales, his breath is shaky.

 

His dad’s voice is soft, nearly sad, when he asks, “Are you high?”

 

Jack’s instinct is to hang up, end the call and throw his phone. Jack’s eyes sting. Jack’s breath stays stuck in his throat, but he doesn’t cough. Marguerite lifts her head but doesn’t make a sound.

 

When Jack was in rehab, they told him, over and over, that he had to come to terms with the fact that some people wouldn’t accept his apologies. Maybe eventually, the group session therapist had said, they’ll come around. But a big part of being sorry, really and truly fucking sorry, means that you have to understand that sometimes people need more than just words of apology. Healing takes time, forgiveness comes in steps.

 

There are some wounds that can’t mend.

 

Jack loosens his grip on his phone, his fingers and palm sweaty. He exhales. “No,” Jack says. “I’m--Jesus. It’s just a dog, fucking--”

 

“Ja--”

 

“I gotta go,” Jack says.

 

He ends the call before he can get a response.

 

He tosses his phone on the coffee table, clicks off the tv. Jack leans forward to press his nose into the top of Marguerite’s head. “I love you,” he says to her fur.  Her tail starts tapping against his leg, and he pets down her back, her curly hair soft under his hands. Tears spring to his eyes, and he clamps them shut.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They sweep Ottawa in four in the first round. Linds smashes into Jack at the sound of the goal; Jack’s bigger than him, but not by much, and Jack’s got his hands around him before he loses his balance. “That’s fucking hockey, baby,” he screams in Jack’s ear, and then Darth is on them, and Sharpy, before the rest of the bench is piling into them, Jack pressed in the middle of them all.

 

They’re all screaming and Jack loves each and every one of them.

 

Jack has to do press, always does, but he’s smiling. He has no clue where his gloves are, lost them when Sharpy had tossed a Falcs’ cap his way. He talks to the guy Hockey Night in Canada sent down, and then escapes down the tunnel.

 

He peels off the main hallway into one of the trainer’s rooms. The lights are off and Jack can still hear the sounds coming from the main arena, but the air is cool, still, and Jack leans against the door, closes his eyes for just a minute. He starts laughing, then, a bit hysterical and a lot happy, adrenaline and joy pooling together to make him feel lighter than he can ever remember.

 

He runs his hand over his face, adjusts his hat, then goes back into the hall. When he gets to the dressing room, everyone is smiling and laughing, and Jack says, “What’re you all so happy about? We’re not even half way there.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

St. Louis goes out against Chicago, Vancouver out to Vegas, Calgary and Winnipeg battle until game seven, and the Jets surprise everyone by winning it. Dallas takes out Nashville in five.

 

In the Easterns, the Falconers are the only ones that sweep, so they get a break that’s longer than anyone else’s.

 

Jack’s parents come to stay in Providence.

 

He sleeps and trains and eats and gets told to rest, over and over, while Boston beats Montreal, while the Rangers win in seven against Canes. The Pens and the Flyers have a messy six game series, where Crosby plays maybe the best hockey Jack has ever watched, and if Philly hated him before, they sure as shit hate him more when the Pens knock the Flyers out in Wells Fargo Center.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Sharpy and Abby bring their kids over for dinner. Jack’s mom and Abby get along like a house on a fire, and before long Sharpy has an embarrassing amount of childhood-Jack chirping material.

 

After dinner, Jack takes the girls and Marguerite out for a quick walk. Sadie and Maddie are good kids, they’re funny and they like Jack’s dog, they let Jack talk to them in French. Jack’s fond of them, cares about them in an easy way; it’s not until they’re back at Jack’s apartment, squeezed onto the couch that it hits him. Marguerite is pressed into his side, his hand at the top of her head, Sadie on his left and Maddie beside Marguerite as they watch The Lion King.

 

Maybe happiness fits on a couch: maybe happiness is the space between his dog’s ears--flat and easy and there to come home to. Jack doesn’t know what he’s been chasing his entire life--something that is complicated, for sure, and probably something that isn’t real. But this kind of comfort, this kind of home--it’s simple and happy. He catches Abby watching them from the kitchen, and she smiles, like she understands.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Aces beat Winnipeg in four, but there’s something wrong with Kent’s wrist. They don’t say anything, but he’s playing one handed more often than not, and Kent doesn’t carry his team but--

 

The Pens beat Boston in six.

 

Dallas beats Chicago in seven, which would be surprising except for the fact that the Blackhawks traded away half their roster. Jack and Sharpy catch the highlights of game seven on their flight back from New York.

 

Most of the other guys are sleeping, so they’re near the front of the plane, sharing a set of headphones.

 

When they finally see the final score, finally watch Chicago get eliminated in the second round, Sharpy sighs.

 

Jack leans his head on Sharpy’s shoulder, elbows him softly.

 

“I know they’re not my team anymore,” he says, “but I--”

 

He’s quiet for a minute, and Jack waits. When he doesn’t continue, Jack says, “It’s okay. I know it’s not personal.”

 

“They were there for all of it. And, fuck, I don’t know, maybe they don’t need me anymore, but maybe they could’ve used me.”

 

“You should message them. It’ll help. If it were me, I’d want to know you still...” Jack trails off, waves his hand in a vague motion.

 

Sharpy elbows Jack, hard, then says, quiet, “Thanks Jackabelle,” before pulling out his phone.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Lardo, Ransom, and Holster all graduate, and Jack can’t be there, but Shitty sends photos. Bittle’s eyes look wet in all of them, but he’s smiling.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack misses his call, and he means to call Bittle back, but he’s on the ice for practice and then he has to nap. He eats, drives straight back to Brown, and eliminates the Rangers.

  
  


 

 

 

 

He gets three days off before he has to fly to Pittsburgh. He eats and walks his dog and stares up at the ceiling.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Shitty calls when they’re reviewing tape, and Jack doesn’t see the missed call until hours later.

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

 

#  _ii: the winner takes it all_

 

The Aces get eliminated by Dallas in game seven.

 

Jack’s phone rings at 2 a.m., and he answers without looking at the caller ID.

 

“Hey,” he says, voice hoarse. He rolls over in his bed and settles on his side, his phone balanced on his ear. “I saw. Sorry.”

 

“Meh,” Kent says. “Sucks, but, y’know. Your turn now.”

 

“How’s your hand?” Jack asks, his eyes closed. He listens to Kent’s breath on the other end of the phone, and it sounds leveled, even and calm.

 

“Broken,” he says. “Probably gotta get it operated on.”

 

“Shit,” Jack says.

 

“It’s fine,” Kent says. “I’ve played through worse.”

 

Jack’s breath stills.

 

Kent exhales and says, “Sorry.”

 

“It’s not a lie, though.”

 

Kent breathes heavily. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

 

“Do you think--”

 

“You can do anything you want, Jack.” Kent laughs softly, “But if you don’t get there this time, that’s okay. Can I tell you something?”

 

“Sure,” Jack says, and it comes out as a whisper.

 

“It’s amazing, holding the Cup, but it doesn’t fix everything.”

 

Jack rolls onto his back. “Wishes, horses,” Jack mumbles, and Kent laughs.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is half under the coffee table, lazily petting Marguerite’s back while dragging a finger along the underside of the coffee table, tracing the patterns of the wood.

 

“Baby, why’re you on the floor?” his mom asks, and he turns his face to look in her direction. He can only see her shins, her socked feet. He shrugs.

 

She lowers herself onto the floor beside him, lays on her side to face him.

 

He goes back to tracing his fingers along the coffee table.

 

“It’s not as bad as I thought it’d be, but the couch is probably better.”

 

“Marguerite’s down here,” he whispers. There’s no one else in the apartment, his dad left thirty minutes ago. There’s no secret he’s trying to keep from her.

 

Jack can feel her watching him, can feel her breath on the side of his face.

 

Jack often yearns for childhood, if only it meant he could be close to his mother again. She’s right beside him but she still feels out of reach.

 

“You have to tell me how to help you,” she says, voice soft.

 

Jack doesn’t say anything, but he rolls his head to the side to finally look at her. She reaches to runs her fingers through the hair at his temple before pushing it back behind his ear. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath.

 

“How’d you know you wanted to marry dad?”

 

“Oh, baby,” she says. She keeps running her nails along his scalp, and if Jack opens his eyes, he knows they’ll well with tears. She sighs. “Even when it’s hard work, I still want to work through it with him.”

 

Jack nods, moves his chin just barely so that she knows he’s listening.

 

“Once, when we’d only been seeing each other for a few months, we were grocery shopping. You know that disgusting casserole he likes to make? He was trying to convince me that we should have it for dinner. We were in the milk aisle, and I was trying to get milk, and he kept stepping in front of me, telling me he’d make it and clean up and everything, and he kept grinning at me and kissing my cheeks when I’d try to step by him. I was so annoyed, but I couldn’t stop laughing.”

 

“That’s how you knew,” Jack says, and when he opens his eyes, she’s smiling at him, a soft turn of her lips that barely makes its way to her eyes.

 

“Maybe,” she says. “I don’t know. I love him very much. Everything else is just window dressing, I guess.”

 

Jack huffs a breath and looks back up at the swirling patterns in the wood.

 

“It’s different for you,” she says. “It’ll be harder, but Jack, you are a wonderful young man, and I’m so happy that you’re my son, and that I get to know you.”

 

He closes his eyes, and his breath shakes in his chest. “It’s not fair.”

 

“No,” she says. “But how would we know what anything was worth if we didn’t have to work for it? It’s hard because it matters.”

 

He blinks hard, and his vision blurs. He wipes at his eyes with the back of his hand. “I want to be happy.”

 

“Let’s start by getting off the floor.”

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Tyler Seguin’s hot,” Bittle laughs. “Maybe I should cheer for him.”

 

“You fucking wouldn’t,” Jack says, fake hurt. He can hear Bittle moving around on the other end of the phone. “I’m happy I caught you.”

 

“You’ve been busy,” Bittle says, and it’s true, but it isn’t the reason for Jack not calling before.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack scores twice and spends more than enough time talking around the media.

 

Yes, it’s very exciting. Yes, they plan to work hard. Yes, they hope hold onto the lead. No, he’s not sure about a captain being named for next season, but he thinks they’re doing alright anyway.

 

They leave Providence with a two-game lead and fly into Fort Worth the same night they win game two.

 

Jack sleeps on the plane.

 

The Falconers played in Dallas once in the regular season, and that was back in the dead of winter. They land after over five hours in the air, and it’s the middle of the night but it’s still sweltering. Jack fucking hates the heat. Hates it more in the middle of June.

 

They get on the bus and Jack’s knees press into the seat in front of him. The fabric of the charter bus seat is itchy on his skin. It’s 4 a.m. in Rhode Island, and he’s so, so tired.

 

He taps his fingers on the armrest the whole drive to the hotel.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They fly back to Providence after losing their two game lead.

 

They’re fighting hard, and Jack’s tired, has lost more weight than he was expecting. They dropped both games in Dallas but win the fifth game in overtime.

 

Jack goes onto the ice every night and throws his heart into every move he makes. They lose again in Dallas, Benn’s brother scoring in overtime to force game seven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _Good luck_ , Jack reads from his phone as he’s eating his pb&j. He means to send back _thanks bittle_ , but he forgets, and then it’s game time by the time he remembers, and then it doesn’t really matter, after that.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Ira says, “Light it up, Jazzy,” and Jack nods.

 

“You too, Schultzy,” he says.

 

Tremble bumps his shoulder into Jack’s, his mouth in a straight line but with a light in his eyes, and he says, “Once more unto the breach, MacDuff.”

 

“Fuckin’ nerd,” Sharpy says, laughing, and then they’re out of the tunnel and hitting the ice.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Seguin scores while the Falcs are short-handed, a bullshit call with bullshit results, which Jack yells at the ref until Dan tells him to shut up and do something about it instead of bitching. When Jack’s line is the next up, Dan leans over his shoulder, says, “Prove them all wrong, Jack. Let’s show ‘em,” before clapping his hand on Jack’s back. Jack nods.

 

 

 

 

 

Sharpy gets the puck to Tribby at the blue line, and Tribber drops it back to Jack when Demers gets on him.

 

Jack has played any number of amazing games of hockey, but there’s a chance that he’ll never be here again. And when Tribby’s pass connects with Jack’s stick perfectly, it’s like everything falls away. Jack’s got good hands, quick and soft, he’s better on his skates than he was when he was playing in Rimouski, has grown into his size properly.

 

Sharpy comes up Jack’s right as Webs skates on the net, and Jack carries it into the Stars’ end before knocking it back to Sharpy. They’ve done this play a hundred time, maybe more: Jack doesn’t even need to look before he fakes a pass to Webs and then knocks it back to Sharpy. Demers adjusts quickly, makes to turn to where Sharpy’s on the point, and then Sharpy fakes a slap shot and passes it back to Jack, and then the pucks in the back of the net.

 

The world crashes back into Jack when Sharpy smokes him into the glass; Jack didn’t even think to celebrate with style, still gliding forward on his skates as the whistle blares and Sharpy screams in his ear, before Webs and Tribby join him, Samski joining them last, but just as fucking loud.

 

They get back on the bench and Dan says, “Knew you could do it, kiddo.”

  


 

 

 

 

They stay tied at 1-1 as the clock counts down at the end of the third, and Jack--

 

Jack doesn’t know what he feels.

 

He wants to win, but he doesn’t want it to end.

 

His blood feels like it’s on fire inside of him. He’s fucking starving. During the intermission, the trainers bring in orange wedges and sandwiches. Jack sips his water like he was always taught, eats an entire orange to get his vitamin C levels up, eats the chicken from the inside of half a sandwich.

 

Sharpy’s knee is jittering, and Jack wants to lean across the space between their stalls to make him stop, but Jack’s fingers are tapping against his water bottle, so he can’t really throw stones.

 

It’s the strangest locker room experience he’s ever had. They’re so fucking close, but they’re all dead scared. They’re such a young team, it’s a miracle they got this far at all. They all want this more than they’ve ever wanted anything. Sharpy’s the only guy in the room who knows that it feels like, and even then, he looks wild, strung out and tired and as excited as Jack feels.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Jack gives it his all every minute, tries his hardest, skates as hard as he can, sits on the bench and yells his lungs out, and they can’t manage to net anything.

 

He does the best he knows how and it’s not good enough.

 

Jack’s shift is changing when Seguin gets it by Schultzy, and Seguin’s smaller than him, faster, and there’s no one there but Ira, a breakaway halfway through a line change--

 

He misses, but Benn picks up the rebound off Hacter, and then it’s over.

 

Jack’s barely even on the ice, it’s not remotely his fault, but not doing something wrong isn’t the same as doing something right.

 

Jack’s half way through thinking that it’s not Benny’s fault either, he’s a damn good goalie, but then everything stills and quiets, all of Jack’s sensory intake narrowing to where Benn is pressed into Seguin across the ice. The stadium is still loud, Jack knows. Objectively he knows a lot is happening all at once.

 

Seguin’s helmet is gone, and Benn’s entire body is lined up to his, plastering Seguin to the boards. But it’s Seguin’s hand at the back of Benn’s jersey, a tight fist of fabric, it’s Seguin’s mouth pressed into Benn’s chin, Benn’s arms both up around Seguin’s face, that has all of Jack’s attention.

 

It’s only a second, barely a second before the entirety of the Stars bench is piling into them, but it’s a second long enough for Jack’s world to shake, for his skates to slip out from under him. Sharpy’s arm comes along his middle, tugs Jack around so that it looks more like Sharpy’s hugging him rather than holding him upright.

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _iii: the news isn’t there to tell you what happened_

 

♡♡♡♡♡♡stars @tinytinaa

ADKLJFKLAJKGAFDKJGA!!!! ...M,,,??? !!!! FUCL @baalalalaa

 

#rubberducky @withoutstories

holy. shit.

 

nice @shipstosubmarines

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! DALLAS

 

NHL @NHL

Dallas Stars win the Stanley Cup 2-1 in OT. nhl.com/news/stanl…

 

Dallas Stars @DallasStars

O Captain! Jamie Benn scores game winner.

 

southern accident @bbwbobo

did yall fuckin see!!!! did u !!1 udid you!?!?! ??  !!!

 

#GotYourSack @7breadlysins

@bbwbobo FUCKING DID!!! HOL Y FUKC

 

!!!!!!!!!!! @kelseyboze

@taylormcnerd IT’S REAL

 

prove them wrong @taylormcnerd

@kelseyboze i caNNOT FUC KING BREATH E IAM CRGINGIG

 

Dallas Stars @DallasStars

Jamie Benn wins Conn Smythe for MVP of the playoffs pic.twitter.com/phot….

 

prove them wrong @taylormcnerd

TYLER  WSAS KI SISING JAMI E E!!! THEY?? AJFGIUNDV @dadsyuk13

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _iv: a known coward in a coward’s wind_

  
After what feels like too long, he’s finally able to back his car out of his parking spot at Brown. The crowd cleared long enough ago that no one stops him in the parking garage, no one sees him, there are barely any cars in the lot at all.

 

He buckles himself in, but doesn’t turn on the engine until he’s able to level out his breathing. He wrings his fingers until his knuckles are white on the wheel, stiff, but no longer shaking.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack unlocks his front door and Marguerite scampers up from where she’d be curled behind the door. Jack’s hands shake as she jumps up at him, puts her front paws on his legs and stretches. She yawns, and makes a small noise, and Jack is so fucking thankful that he can slap his hip, whisper, “let’s get you outside.”

 

If his dad thinking he’s an irresponsible pet owner is the worst thing that comes from his reaching for her leash rather than a bottle of pills, Jack will fucking take it.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Kent calls just as he’s trying to wedge his shoes off without untying them.

 

Jack holds his phone between his shoulder and ear, swipes the screen to answer before finally admitting defeat and bending at the waist to undo his laces.

 

“Hi,” Jack says, and it’s softer than he meant it to be, quiet in his apartment, compared to the ringing in his ears, raspy with the painful lump in his throat.

 

“Hey Zimms,” Kent says, and he sounds--nothing, Jack doesn’t know how he sounds. Neutral, maybe. Cautious. Blank, like when he’d walked into the Haus and Jack had ripped his arm from Bittle’s shoulders. And that was--it was so long ago, now. So much has happened to them both, but Jack feels a new pit in his stomach that has nothing to do with losing the fucking Stanley Cup.

 

“You doin’ okay?” Kent asks.

 

Jack sighs. “I feel fuckin’ horrible,” he says, soft still, barely a whisper. He feels like a fucking coward, Kent lost too, technically everyone other than the Stars roster lost, but--

 

“Yeah,” Kent says, and the smooth monotone that he’d started with finally cracks. “I wanted to check…” He trails off, but Jack doesn’t blame him.

 

“I’m not relapsing,” Jack says. “I just got back in from walking my dog. I don’t even have--”

 

“That’s good,” Kent says. “Still. You gonna be okay?”

 

“Sure as shit hope so,” Jack says. “I’m tired.”

 

“You want me to go?”

 

Jack shakes his head, but Kent can’t see him, so he whispers, “no. Just, let me change, okay? I’ll put you on speaker, you can talk to Marg.”

 

When Jack puts his phone down on his bed, Kent says, “Dogbert, where you at, babe?” Marguerite’s ears perk up, and when Kent continues, “I can’t wait to kiss your face when I meet you, and I’m a cat man,” she yips, jumps on the bed to find the sound of Kent’s voice.

 

Jack laughs, “Stop calling her Dogbert, what the fuck.”

 

“It’s hilarious,” Kent says.

 

“Coming from the guy whose cat is named after him.”

 

“Kit is, like, internet famous, okay. Leave her alone.”

 

“Sharpy named his dog after himself, too.”

 

Kent laughs. “Good man.”

 

“Don’t tell him that,” Jack says, tossing his socks into the hamper and pulling on pyjama pants. He picks up his phone and turns off speaker while he climbs under the comforter, lays on his side. He’s had the airconditioning up high enough that it’s actually chilly in the apartment. When Marguerite curls up behind him, her side pressed into his back, he sighs.

 

“You’re gonna be okay, Jack.”

 

“Gotta be,” he says, his eyes held tight.

 

“Jack,” Kent says, drags it out like it’s not his name, like it means something else to Kent, like it holds weight.

 

“Do you think--” Jack starts, stops, doesn’t know what he meant to ask.

 

Kent sighs. “I--” Jack can hear him swallow over the line. “I thought about buying a flight out there.”

 

“You could have,” Jack says, but he doesn’t know what it means.

 

“I’m glad I didn’t,” Kent says.

 

“I tried to fucking win,” Jack snaps, defensive.

 

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it,” Kent says. “You and I both know that we wouldn’t be happy waking up in the same bed.”

 

Jack rolls onto his back, and Marguerite huffs, but she doesn’t move.

 

“Why’d you call?” Jack asks, and he doesn’t know how Kent did it, but all the fight is gone, all the anger and everything else feels like it’s pushed back to somewhere Jack can see but can’t reach. He doesn’t feel like he’s falling out of his skin. It’ll be back, he knows, but for now, it helps that all he feels is tired.

 

“I wanted to make sure you were actually okay,” Kent says. “I wish you weren’t alone.”

 

“Why?”

 

Kent holds his breath, then says, “I care about you very much, Jack.” He exhales, and Jack feels his own exhale, steady and slow, tries to concentrate on that. “But I don’t love you anymore.”

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

The shots are grainy, zoomed in too many times, taken without a flash. It’s barely photography and it’s unfair content and it’s everything Jack avoids when thinking about pictures. Seguin pouring champagne into Benn’s mouth, Benn wiping his hand across Seguin’s mouth when he tries to reciprocate. Seguin pressed along Benn’s side.

 

They’re just shitty cell phone photos, but Jack can barely breathe while looking at them.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack doesn’t normally look at blogs, has spent too much of his life looking down the barrel of the internet’s gun, but now he can’t help it. He searches out photos of Benn and Seguin like he’s a fucking stalker. He’s part of the problem, he realizes--he’s never wanted to come out because he hates the idea of anyone doing this to him.

 

But here he is, desperately googling, looking at grainy vines and reading speculation.

 

Jack’s spent so much of his life in a mild panic; anxiety coming out in shaky hands, sweaty palms, a flinch at the brush of a shoulder. Any number of contact points set him off, and his brain isn’t an exception. It’s like an unscratchable itch. Jack’s anxiety and Jack’s one track mind colliding--an unstoppable force and immovable object--a slow and constant sense of dread that he’s lived with for as long as he can remember.

 

After the parade in Fort Worth, there are no new photos of what the media is now calling Bennguin. (They’re the Brangelina of hockey, Shitty texts.)

 

It’s not until their reps release a statement, four weeks after they won the Cup and outed themselves in their joy, that a single photo appears on Seguin’s twitter. They’re on a rocky beach, ocean dark but the sky blue. Has to be B.C., Jack thinks, with how there’s no sand on the beach.

 

Benn’s arm is around Seguin’s shoulders, Seguin is laughing, his eyes crinkled in the corners, and Benn is blushing or sun burnt or both, baseball hat on backwards, looking down at Seguin. Seguin’s neither the biggest nor the smallest guy, but he looks small here, his bathsuit slung low on his hips, arm around Benn’s waist.

 

They look happy.  

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _v: a might fine high horse_

 

Bittle doesn’t call.

 

Jack doesn’t know why, but he doesn’t call Bittle either, so maybe--

 

Well.

 

All’s fair, Jack guesses.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He goes to Las Vegas and hangs out with Kent and with Toews and Kane and wins the Calder. He has a beer, they take some photos. He agrees to talk to his agent about getting a deal with BioSteel after some rep strong arms him, but in a way that Jack finds convincing rather than annoying.

 

He takes his mom as his plus one, and his dad comes too, and the media eats it up. The Zimmermanns, back at it again: Bad Bob and his beautiful wife and prodigal son.

 

He does a bit with a bunch of the Habs players, where they basically just call each other names in french while on camera for two minutes, and it’s fun, it’s fine, it’s over fast enough that Jack can’t really think about it.

 

It’s not real. It’s fucking media. It’s just a show.

 

And so he wins, but they’re just fucking journalists. They don’t know anything. The Stars bring out the Cup, and Jack’s eyes track Benn and Seguin the whole time. No one says anything about it.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He rewatches all of Breaking Bad, only leaves his couch to walk Marguerite and make smoothies and sandwiches. He finishes it in under a week, which is honestly alarming considering he followed it for the full on-air run. He doesn’t talk to anyone other than texts to his mom.

 

He doesn’t text Bittle, but he couldn’t say why. It’d be easy, a _remember when holster just said ‘magnets bitch’ to everything for that entire week last fall?_   would be answered and it’d be normal again, probably. But Jack can’t bring himself to type it, let alone hit send.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack drives down to Samwell, gets Lardo’s stuff out of her storage unit. He picks her up at Logan, and then they drive to Cambridge.

 

He helps her move her stuff into a little shoebox apartment with exposed brick and old hardwood floors that bounce under Jack’s feet. She orders them a pizza and they eat it on the floor. Shitty arrives the next morning, after Jack and Lardo sleep on the mattress they’d left on the floor the night before. He brings Jack a massive coffee, and Jack spends most of the day building shelves and assembling their bedframe while they’ll carry stuff in from Shitty’s volvo. It takes them two trips back to Shitty’s old place, but by 6 o’clock, everything’s built, it’s humid, and Jack’s dead on his feet.

 

He leaves that night, can’t bring himself to cockblock the two of them just because he’s tired. He’s just proved that he’s an amazing bro, moving them into their love nest when he could very well still be licking his wounds, wallowing--he doesn’t want to ruin it by overstaying his welcome.

 

He sits in his car for long minutes, and his eyes fill with tears.

 

Jack doesn’t envy them--he doesn’t want to live in a fucking shoebox, he likes where he lives, loves his dog and won the fucking Calder. He’s not--

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

Time passes. Time passes and keeps doing its imposing job of making Jack look and feel like shit.

  


 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _vi: news travels fast in places where nothing much ever happens_

 

 **Calder Controversy** :   
Lindsey Tremble: Zimmermann Carried Us

bleacherreport.com, 30 July 2016

 

There’s been some public argument as to whether Jack Zimmermann (25) is deserving of the Calder Trophy. The questioning seems to be coming from indignant franchise fans who feel that their favored rookies were robbed of the title. Connor McDavid, who went first in the 2015 draft, was a contender, and Edmonton fans have expressed their anger, despite the team not clinching a playoff spot. Most of the argument against Zimmermann seems to stem from his age; no one his age has won the title since 2001, and then before that, not since the year Zimmermann was born.

 

However, when the argument jumped from bar stools and the blogosphere to more mainstream outlets, Zimmermann’s linemate came to his defense on twitter. Lindsey Tremble, whose internet presence is mostly used to plug sponsors and tweet the odd photo for fans, defended Zimmermann as the Calder recipient. “Zimmy carried us through the season,” he started, and in twelve replies to his own tweet, managed to share Zimmermann’s impressive statistics for this past season. Zimmermann set a record for seasonal points for the Providence Falconers, with an average of 2 points a game in the regular season.

 

“He’s a good friend and a great line mate,” he said. Tremble remained tactful and professional until someone responded to his tweets with an insinuation that Zimmermann’s performance was related to drug use, to which Tremble wrote, “yall are nasty. jacks a solid guy and deserves better. shame your team didnt make it as far as us.”

 

Read more at bleacherreport.com

 

Patrick Kane @PKane88

how you boys feel about me-hi-co! pic.twitter.com/photo/pinafg…

 

kentparsley:

 

 

 

 

 

 

> did kaner just quote super troopers???? while on vacation??? with jonny??? and all their siblings???

 

**12 notes**

 

♡♡♡♡♡♡stars @tinytina

i canNOT fucking BELIEVe that kazer??? is?? real?? they married af

 

 **The End of the Jason Collins Phenomenon**  
www.vice.com | 5 August 2016

 

At the end of the 2012-13 season, then Washington Wizard Jason Collins was the first professional basketball player to publicly come out as gay. After the announcement, he became a free agent. He didn’t play again until 2014, when he signed a ten-day contract with the Brooklyn Nets. Thereafter, he played with them until he announced his retirement later in the year. He was the first publicly gay athlete to play in any of the four major league professional sports leagues.

 

Michael Sam, similarly, saw signing difficulties after coming out as gay. The 25 year old football player was drafted in 2014 to the St. Louis Rams, but was cut in training camp. Sam is the first publicly gay NFL drafted football player, but he never played a game. In 2015, he signed to the Montreal Alouettes (CFL), and became the league’s first publicly homosexual player.

 

There’s a clear trend; however, since this last June’s Stanley Cup final, it’s possible that the state of homophobia in professional sports is changing. After their overtime victory over the Providence Falconers, Dallas Stars Captain Jamie Benn and linemate Tyler Seguin gave a brave display of emotion on the ice, embracing and celebrating their Cup win. Since the display, there has been speculation and later confirmation of the state of their relationship, and they’ve become the NHL’s first two openly gay players, in addition to being the first on-ice romance.

 

Neither of them could be reached for comment, but the mass media has taken to calling them the “Brangelina of hockey.”

 

The question, then, of their future on the Stars is interesting. Their current roster brought hockey back to Texas, and there is no question as to their influence on the team’s success. Are they safe, then, simply because they’re already established? Being the faces of their franchise could be their saving grace.

 

read more on vice

 

EntertainmentTonight  @ETnow

Taylor Swift seen leaving Las Vegas show with Aces’ Captain Kent Parson etonline.com/tay…

 

Eric Bittle @omgcheckplease

Woke Chow up at 7 am to help the babs move into the haus! What a good goalie pic.twitter.com/pho…

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _vii: no one could call that crazy_

 

The drive from Providence to Montreal is six hours on the I-89.

 

Marguerite’s head is out the passenger side window, and she looks happy.

 

She can’t really reach--she’s only five month old, still a baby really. She’s going to be all legs by the time she’s done growing--but she’s got her front paws on the door, her nose barely reaching the open window.

She keeps trying to get on Jack’s lap as he drives.

 

Jack’s parents had been hesitant when he turned 16 and got his permit right away. He was a twitchy kid, awkward in his limbs everywhere but on the ice, with a stupid haircut and a worse attitude. Add in the stutter he spoke with when he was nervous, his habit for hesitation sneaking its way into every word he spoke--he doesn’t blame them for worrying.

 

But he’s always liked driving; it clears his head. There’s a metaphor in there somewhere about open roads, reflex action, something about the rolling of tires, passing scenery and stereo music.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“You could have flown,” his dad says as he pulls Jack’s bag from the back of the car.

 

Jack shrugs. “Didn’t want to have to fly with her. It’s fine, we had fun.” He lets Marguerite out of the car, and she scampers up the driveway to where Jack’s mom is leaning against the front door. She jumps at Alicia’s legs, and she bends down to pet her.

 

“How long’re you here for,” she asks Jack as she rubs behind Marguerite’s ears.

 

“Just a few days, I think. Camp starts soon.”

 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Bob says, dropping Jack’s bag at the door. “It’ll never be the same without you.”

 

“Can we swim?” Jack asks, and his dad smiles.

 

“Of course,” his dad says.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is floating on his back in the backyard. His dad is sitting on the edge of the pool, kicking his feet in the water while he tosses a ball across the yard for Marguerite.

 

He can hear his parents talking back and forth in french, but his ears are full of pool water. It’s muffled.

 

It’s not home here, anymore, but it’s still safe. There’s no one to see anything. It’s just Jack and his parents, where they all cheat when they play scrabble, where his mom sings under her breath to Norah Jones while she and Jack cut veggies for a salad.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

The next night, they drink two bottles of red wine with dinner, laughing. Jack’s face is warm. He’s still in his swimsuit, a t-shirt pulled over his head when they sat down for dinner.

 

“How’s Eric?” his mom asks, swirling her wine in her glass.

 

And Jack knows she doesn’t mean anything by it, that she’s genuinely curious. He knows that both his parents like Bittle, think he’s charming and smart and great on skates.

 

Jack shrugs, lifts his shoulders. “Fine, probably.”

 

“Probably?” She asks, and she doesn’t sound sardonic, just sad, maybe. But barely. She takes another sip of her wine, meeting Jack’s eye.

 

“I haven’t spoken to him lately. I don’t know.” Jack’s dad sighs, and Jack turns to look at him. “What?”

 

“Are you not--” his mom starts, stops.

 

“Tell me,” Jack says. He’s not angry. He just--he’s tired. He’s supposed to be on vacation.

 

“Why are you doing this?” his dad says.

 

“Doing what? I don’t understand.”

 

“Jack, baby,” his mom says. “We just want you to be happy. I didn’t mean anything by it.”

 

Jack finishes his wine in a single sip. “I don’t want to talk about this.”

 

His dad rolls his eyes. “This is what I mean,” he says. “The only person in your way is you.”

 

“Did you invite me here to berate my personal life?”

 

“This is your home,” Bob says as Jack pushes himself away from the table.

 

“I’m taking Marguerite for a walk.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He’s sitting on the hood of his car when his dad comes outside. Marguerite is sniffing around the flowerbed. Jack’s leaning back against the windshield, probably putting a sizable dent in his car. It’ll pop back out.

 

“Hey,” his dad says, quiet. He taps his fingers gently on Jack’s thigh, and Jack curls his neck up to look at him.

 

“Hi,” Jack says. “Sorry.”

 

“Me too. It’s none of our business. We didn’t mean to gang up on you.”

 

“I know,” Jack says. He sits up, and his dad takes a step back so he can jump off the front of the car.

 

They walk onto the grass in front of the house and watch the dog roll around in a spot of grass.

 

They’re quiet for a long moment until Jack’s dad says, “Why are you doing this?”

 

“Doing what?” Jack asks, not looking away from Marguerite.

 

“You’re torturing yourself. You could be happy.”

 

A car drives by their house, turns at the end of the street. Marguerite trots across the yard to burrow her way into a bush by the side of the house, pops out the other side, and runs back.

 

Jack sighs, rubs a hand over his face. He’s picking at the skin near his thumbnail with his finger. “What if people find out?”

 

Bob is quiet for a minute before he says, “They could find out anyway, whether you’re with him or not.”

 

“But that’d only ruin my life, not his. I--”

 

“Wouldn’t it be easier to deal with that if you weren’t on your own? Not that I don’t know that you’re a strong young man, but Jack, it’d be better dealing with that together than alone.”

 

“I can’t ask him to--”

 

“Sure you can,” Bob says, claps his hand on Jack’s back. “What’s the point of being so unhappy? You both want to be together.”

 

Jack flushes. “I--you...how--”

 

His dad laughs, soft, and Jack suddenly feels better than he has since they lost. “He’s a nice boy, but you’re both incredibly obvious. It’s almost embarrassing.”

 

Jack can feel the colour high in his cheeks. “Sorry,” he says. Marguerite walks over to them, and Jack leans down to push her fur back from her eyes. She turns her face to lick at his palm. “Sorry I couldn’t win,” he says, softer.

 

“Oh, Jack,” his dad says. “I don’t care about that.”

 

“You don’t?” Jack asks, looks up at his dad.

 

Bob shakes his head. “Of course not,” he says. “You being a damned good kid and a damn good hockey player has nothing to do with that stupid Cup.”

 

“Your sorry ass never won the Calder, either,” Jack says, smirking.

 

“Now,” Bob says, but he’s barely keeping down a laugh. “Come inside. Hug your mother.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

Jack spends another day swimming laps and lifting weights and lazing in the pool, trying to come up with a plan. He’s seen movies. He knows the story of how his parents got together. He needs to have a plan.

 

The thing is: he can’t come up with a damn thing.

 

It’s still all horrible. His hands shake, palms sweaty even when he’s in the swimming pool. He’s not sure how he’s going to open his mouth to say anything out loud to Bittle if he can’t even think about it without raising his blood pressure.

 

And maybe that’s what it’s about: knowing that you care about someone more than anything and that it can still be shit. That it’s worth it. He thinks that the point his parents are trying to make.

 

So he spends a day floating on his back and having panic attacks. He eats and naps in the sun and helps his dad barbeque chicken burgers.

 

After dinner, he clears the table and then excuses himself to his room.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Hello?” Bittle answers on the fourth ring.

 

“Bittle. Hi.”

 

“Jack,” he says, but it’s not a question. “Hi.”

 

“Hey,” Jack says. He has to hold his phone tighter than he’d like to keep his hand from shaking. “Are you busy?”

 

“I--not really. One sec.” Jack breathes, waits. The noise on Bittle’s end of the phone stops, gets quieter. He can hear the minute Bittle steps away from wherever he is. “Better,” he says, but he doesn’t relieved.

 

“It’s nice to hear your voice.”

 

Bittle sighs. “What do you want, Jack?”

 

Jack’s quiet for a minute, then inhales and says, “Why didn’t you call?”

 

Bittle’s breath sounds heavy through the phone. “Why didn’t you?” he says, and his voice sounds sharper than Jack’s ever heard it.

 

“I--”

 

“I’m out right now,” Bittle says, then, still short, and Jack knows he’s mad, but he can’t find the misstep. Doesn’t understand.

 

“Can we please talk?” Jack asks, and he sounds more desperate than he thinks he should, but less than he feels.

 

“I’m busy,” Bittle says, then takes a deep breath. “Look, you don’t get to pick and choose when we’re friends. You know how I feel about you, this isn’t fair.”

 

“I--Bittle. Eri--”

 

“I gotta go,” he says, then hangs up, and Jack--

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack can’t breathe.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 _do u know when bittle is going back to samwell_ Jack sends.

 

It’s late, nearing midnight, but Shitty texts back, _He’s back already._

 

_ok_

_Thank you Shitty, you’re such a good friend Shitty, I’m a massive asshole Shitty._

 

 _thank u shitty_ , Jack sends.

  


 

 

 

 

 

Jack knocks on the door to his parents’ bedroom the next morning just after five. “Can you please drive me to Trudeau? And keep Marguerite for a day or two?”

 

“When’s your flight?” His dad grunts into his pillow, but he rolls over, kisses the back of Alicia’s head.

 

She whispers, “call,” but she’s already back to sleep.

 

“Leaves for Logan in two and half hours,” Jack says. “I--Please.”

 

“Twenty minutes,” Bob says.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack books a hotel room from the security line. He gets through the line and the guard smiles at him. “When’re you going to come play for the Habs,” he asks in rocky french.

 

Jack shrugs, but smiles. “You never know,” he says, and the guy scans his passport.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

His knees shake, and he’s never been happier for flying first-class. In economy, his knees would be pressed into the seat in front of him. Instead, he can tap his fingers on the armrest, can bounce his left knee up and down until the plane lifts off. The flight attendant offers him coffee, and he asks for orange juice.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

When he lands he texts Bittle _can we please talk_ , but doesn’t get a response. It’s not that late yet, Bittle could be sleeping still. It’s too early to check into his hotel room, but they let him leave his bags with them at the desk. He rents a car.

  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

He parks in the driveway of the Haus, and jogs up to the front door. His key would still work in the door, but it’s unlocked when he tries the doorknob.

 

Dex and Nursey are in their pyjamas and playing Mario-Kart with two guys Jack doesn’t recognize, and they turn when he opens the door.

 

“I--” Jack starts, and Nursey takes one look at him then says, “He’s at Faber.”

 

“Thank you,” Jack says, and turns. As the door is swinging shut behind him, he hears one of the guys say, “Was that Jack fucking Zimmermann, what the fu--” before the rest is cut off by the door closing.

 

Jack drives the rental car the three minutes across campus and parks at the rink.

 

Bittle is taking shots on Chowder, and there are cones all around centre ice. Chowder says something and Bittle laughs. He does a spin without lifting off the ice and then shoots it, top left, and Chowder doesn’t stop it.

 

Jack watches them for a few minutes, more goofing around than serious practice, until Chowder must see him. He’s too far away for Jack to really see his face, but he can imagine Chowder’s eyes going wide, his mouth hanging open. Jack honestly thought the kid would have braces forever.

 

He must say something, because Bittle’s head whips around. He turns back to Chowder, takes a last shot, a hard slap that Chowder stops with his pads, and then skates to collect the stray pucks.

 

When Chowder gets off the ice and walks by Jack, he says, “Hey, Jack,” but he keeps walking, barely looks in Jack’s direction.

 

“Hey,” Jack echos, but Chowder is already halfway to the locker room.

 

Jack suddenly aches to be a part of this team again. Misses the way all of the showers in Faber spit freezing water before changing over to scalding.

 

Bittle is stacking all his cones and carrying a bucket of pucks, and Jack stays standing, watches until Bittle finally comes off the ice. “Let me change,” he says, but his voice is monotonous in a way Jack has never heard before. “I’ll be fast. Meet you outside?”

 

Jack has no choice other than to say, “Yeah, okay.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

Bittle opens the passenger side door and sits, but doesn’t buckle in.

 

“Where’s your gear?” Jack asks.

 

“Threw it in Chowder’s trunk.”

 

“Chowder has a car?”

 

“Chowder has a car.”

 

Jack squeezes the steering wheel. “Will you please look at me?” He asks, and his voice is shaking, but he gets the words out in their entirety. When Bittle finally stops looking straight ahead and turns to meet Jack’s eye, Jack’s eyes fall closed.

 

“I’m sorry,” Jack says. “I’m sorry I didn’t call.”

 

“Why didn’t you?”

 

“I don’t know,” Jack says. When he opens his eyes, Bittle is looking down at his hands, where they’re clasped together in his lap. “I meant to, at first. But it was crazy and then we lost and--”

 

“And then they not only beat you, but they got to be together too,” Bittle says, and Jack physically startles in his seat.

 

“And then I didn’t know how,” Jack says, admitting it, finally.

 

“I can’t do this anymore,” Bittle says, and he finally closes his eyes. He takes deep, steadying breaths, and Jack hates that he’s the reason why.

 

“Can we go get a coffee?” Jack asks. “Please? We can go sit at River Quad. Just. Please?”

 

Bittle wipes at his face with the back of his hand, once, then says, “Coffee, but can we go somewhere else?”

 

“I can drive to the city? I’m staying near the harbour.”

 

“Okay,” Bittle says.

  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The drive is quiet, but not as awkward as Jack thinks it should be. Bittle looks out the window a lot. Jack spends the entire time wanting to reach across and touch him, spends the entire time stopping himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack parks a few minutes from the hotel, puts coins into the meter and they walk a block to a well air-conditioned coffee shop. They order, and Jack pays, and Bittle doesn’t say anything after ordering his drink, so neither does Jack.

 

Jack grabs two straws, passes one to Bittle, tears the paper. Jack’s iced americano comes up first, and he adds a bit of milk. By the time he’s done, Bittle has his smoothie and he nods towards the door, so Jack follows him.

 

They walk to the harbour, and Bittle asks, “Why did you come here?”

 

Jack inhales, exhales. “I had to.”

 

He looks over at Bittle, and he smiles a bit, before it drops from his face. “You didn’t have to, but it’s--it’s nice that you did.”

 

“Can I tell you something?”

 

“Jack..” Bittle says.

 

“Please just--” Jack stop walking, wraps his hand around Bittle’s arm to pull them to the side, out of the flow of foot traffic. He loosens his grip and lets his hand trail down Bittle’s arm before dropping it, pulling back.

 

Jack looks away, out over the water. Shitty is just across it, in Cambridge, living a life that Jack doesn’t really know anything about, other than that Lardo is there, and that their living room is covered in textbooks. Law school.

 

“I didn’t call because I just wanted to tell you how much I missed you, but I didn’t know how.”

 

He takes a deep breath, closes his eyes for just a second before opening them again. “I never meant to make you think that hockey was more important than you. I didn’t think it was a contest.” He looks back at Bittle, licks his lips, sighs. “I didn’t think this was something I could lose.”

 

Bittle blinks up at Jack a few times before looking away, turning to look out at the water, too.

 

“I was wrong,” Jack says, and he thinks it’s the bravest thing he’s ever done, isn’t sure if he’s ever said those words out loud before. “I don’t want to keep feeling this way.”

 

“Let’s go back to the car,” Bittle says, fast. “There’re too many people here.”

 

“My hotel’s closer,” Jack says, and Bittle nods.

 

“Yeah, fine.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bittle pulls the strap of Jack’s bag over his shoulder while Jack checks into the hotel. They confirm his credit card information and look at his ID, and the girl at the desk has no idea who he is, doesn’t react at all other than to hand over two keycards and says, “Let us know if you need anything. Enjoy your stay.”

 

It looks like any other hotel room that Jack’s stayed in, bland walls and white sheets and a Keurig tucked into the corner.

 

Bittle drops Jack’s bag by the bed and leans against the small table in the corner. He crosses his arms over his chest, but he doesn’t seem mad. Jack doesn’t know how he seems.

 

Jack sits on the bed, rests his elbows on his knees, his face in his hands. “I meant it,” he says.

 

The air conditioner isn’t loud, but it whirs, and it should be an ambient sound, but Jack can hear it steadily over the sound of his heart in his ears.

 

“Meant what?” Bittle asks, barely a whisper.

 

“I never meant to make you think that this was something I was going to stop wanting.”

 

“So you just, what? Hoped it’d go away? Wanted us to both be miserable until, what? I met someone else, settled down? And you played hockey?”

 

Jack shrugs his shoulders. “I thought I could do it, that it would be okay.”

 

“It hasn’t been okay for me,” Bittle says. “I mean, I can manage, but.” Jack looks up from his hands, and Bittle is looking out the window, over Boston. He doesn’t look like he’s looking at anything, though. “But I’d rather be with you than not,” he says. “I care about you but I’m really fucking mad at you for doing this to me.”

 

Bittle looks back at him, and Jack nods. “Is it something I can fix?”

 

“I don’t know,” Bittle says. “I still don’t get why you’re here.”

 

Jack presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I wanted to see you. To talk to you.”

 

“But why?”

 

Jack pulls his hands back when he starts to see spots of red behind his eyelids. He takes a deep breath.

 

He remembers his therapist talking about stutters and how much words weigh, how much the way Jack speaks is connected to his anxiety. He picks his words as carefully as he can, now that he understands how much they mean to other people.

 

His throat feels tight, his tongue heavy.

 

He looks up at Bittle, swallows the lump that’s stuck in his throat. There are some people, Jack now knows, that you can just love and love and the reservoir will never run dry.

 

“Because I want to be with you, and I was fucking stupid to think that anything would be easier without you. It’s not. It’s not better, it’s awful.”

 

“You’re being serious,” Bittle says, arms falling to his side.

 

“I--well, yeah.”

 

Bittle tilts his head. “What...what would that mean? To you.”

 

“I--” Jack sits up straight, folds his hands in his lap. “I mean, I’m not ready to come out. I can’t promise that I’ll ever be ready. But I--” He takes a deep breath, and his hands are trembling in his lap. Bittle must notice at the same time Jack does, because he pushes himself off the table and comes to sit beside Jack, a few inches to his left.

 

“I’m listening,” Bittle says. Jack breathes in through his nose, and counts to three before exhaling slowly.

 

“I want to have a life,” Jack says. “I don’t want to be alone anymore. And that’s not--” he runs his hand through his hair. “It used to be okay, and I used to think it’d be fine. But you--I--”

 

“Jack,” Bittle says, and he wraps his fingers around Jack’s wrist, uncurls Jack’s fingers where they’ve made a fist. “You don’t have to do everything alone.”

 

“I used to be able to,” Jack whispers, like he lost something between Samwell and Providence. Maybe he did.

 

Bittle shrugs. “Must’a been lonely, huh?”

 

Jack shrugs. Jack, for as long as he can remember, only wanted to play hockey, just wanted to be the best. He didn’t know. “I guess. Fish don’t know they’re in water.”

 

Bittle reaches up to run his fingers through the hair at Jack’s temple, and Jack’s eyes fall shut. He takes a few stuttering breaths, and then Bittle says, “Did you sleep last night?”

 

Jack just presses into Bittle’s hand. “Not really,” he mumbles.

 

“Get changed,” Bittle says. “I could go for a nap.” He stands, taps Jack on the shoulder once, pulls away before Jack can catch Bittle’s hand in his own. Bittle closes the bathroom door behind him.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

* * *

* * *

 

#  _vii: the body’s greed, the heart’s bewilderment_

 

When Jack wakes up, his eyes feel sticky. He rolls towards the centre of the bed, and blinks a few times. Bittle is sitting up against the headboard; when Jack tilts his head to look up at him, Bittle tosses his phone down on the bedside table.

 

“Sorry,” Jack says, voice raspy. “What time is it?”

 

“Almost four,” Bittle says. His hair is sticking up in all directions, his cheeks flushed. He must’ve slept too.

 

Jack makes a muffled sound as he scoots closer to Bittle, presses his face into the side of Bittle’s hip. He reaches down to run his fingers in Jack’s hair, and Jack hums in the back of his throat. “Are you hungry?”

 

Jack could eat.

 

“I could eat,” he says as he nudges his bent knees into Bittle’s legs.

 

Bittle runs his fingers down Jack’s neck, over his shoulder. He’s tracing lazy circles on the skin where Jack’s t-shirt ends. “Now?” Jack drops his arm across Bittle’s legs, huffs, and Bittle laughs. “I didn’t think you’d be clingy,” he says, still drawing lazy circles into Jack’s skin.

 

“I’m not clingy,” Jack says, indignant.

 

“Do you just wanna order room service?”

 

“Yeah,” Jack nods.

  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They eat sitting against the headboard, blankets folded down over their waists.

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

“When’re you flying back?”

 

Bittle is drinking milk from a straw, their dinner plates put back on the tray. Neither of them have bothered to get up and put it back in the hall.

 

“I haven’t bought a ticket yet, but prospect camp is done soon. I’ll have to be back around the end of the month. Plus I need to go get my dog.”

 

“From?”

 

“From my parents house,” Jack says. “I flew out of Montreal.”

 

“I didn’t know you were there,” Bittle says.

 

Jack shrugs. “I should tell them I made it, actually.”

 

Bittle grabs Jack’s phone off the bedside table and passes it to Jack.

 

He sends, _made it. at the hilton @ boston harbour. thank u for keeping marg_ to both his parents, and his mom replies quickly with, _Happy to hear it! Tell Eric hi when you see him._

 

“My mom says ‘hi.’”

 

“I say ‘hi’ back,” Bittle says, smirking.

 

_he says hi_

 

When his mom responds with a heart emoji, Jack locks the screen. When he reaches over Bittle to put his phone back, Bittle takes it from his hand and sets it beside where his own phone is charging. Jack, still leaning half over Bittle, shifts his weight to keep his balance. When Bittle turns back, their faces are close. “Hey,” Jack says, and Bittle smiles.

 

“Hi,” Bittle says, and it comes out softer than a whisper.

 

When Jack leans forward to press his lips to Bittle’s, it’s easy. Bittle’s mouth is closed, but when he presses back into Jack, Jack makes a noise in his throat.

 

Jack pulls back, and Bittle reaches forward, gently touches Jack’s cheek. When Jack looks at him, his eyes are still closed, a faint blush colouring his cheeks.

 

Bittle blinks. “Why’d you stop?” He presses his hand into Jack’s cheek, and leans up to meet Jack again.

 

This time, when their lips meet, it’s less tentative. Jack kisses at the corner of Bittle’s mouth, then moves to center himself. Bittle’s tongue meets Jack’s lower lip, and Jack moans into it, opens his mouth.

 

Bittle’s hand moves to the back of Jack’s head, his fingers curling into the hair at Jack’s nape.

 

It’s like opening floodgates; Jack knew it would be like this--was scared to touch him for fear of not being able to stop. When Bittle shifts down the bed, Jack follows him. He rests his elbows beside Bittle’s head on the mattress, shifts to fall between the space at Bittle’s hips. When Jack has to pull away to catch his breath, he closes his eyes, rests his forehead against Bittle’s.

 

Bittle runs his hands down Jack’s arms, over his shoulders. He nudges his nose into Jack’s cheek, and Jack presses a closed mouth kiss to Bittle’s face without looking.

 

“Jack?” Bittle’s voice is quiet, raspy.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“You good?” Bittle’s left hand cups the side of Jack’s neck, and Jack moves into the touch.

 

“Yeah.”

 

“You wanna stop?”

 

Jack shakes his head. “No, I--Please, no.”

 

“Alright,” Bittle says, and he kisses at Jack’s cheekbone before trailing towards Jack’s jaw, kisses him until Jack moans when he nips a spot by Jack’s ear.

 

Jack’s hands bracket the sides of Bittle’s head, and he tugs gently until Bittle is lined up underneath him again. When they kiss, it’s more urgent. Jack feels desperate with the need to kiss into Bittle’s mouth, to press their bodies together tight.

 

Bittle gets his hands down Jack’s back, rucks up his shirt to touch the skin at his lower back. He gets a handful of Jack’s ass and then grinds up into Jack’s hips, groaning.

 

Jack grinds back down into Bittle, takes his lower lip between his teeth as he rocks back and bites just as he presses back. He chases it with his tongue to sooth the sting of his teeth, and Bittle’s grip on Jack gets tighter. Bittle turns his face away from Jack, breath heavy. Jack moves to mouth at Bittle’s neck, kisses at his Adam’s apple, up along his jaw.

 

Bittle pulls his hands back from Jack’s ass and Jack grunts at the loss. “Sorry,” Bittle says, and when Jack looks at him, his face is flushed. “Sorry I just--” he laughs softly. “I don’t want to come in my pants.”

 

“Okay,” Jack says. He kisses Bittle chastely, once, then says, “I can definitely help prevent that.” He moves down Bittle’s body, brackets his legs over Bittle’s knees. Bittle’s eyes are wide, but when Jack’s fingers get to the waistband of Bittle’s shorts, he nods. Jack pulls Bittle’s briefs down with them in a single movement, shimmies to get them past where he’s sitting on Bittle’s legs. Jack scoots down, then leans forward to kiss at Bittle’s thigh. He drags his hands from Bittle’s knees, up his thighs to his hips. He presses down gently, lays his forearm across Bittle’s middle before wrapping his fingers around the base of Bittle’s erection.

 

He jerks his hand once, all the way up and back down before he runs his tongue along the underside of Bittle’s cock. When he glances up at Bittle through his eyelashes, Bittle is propped up on his elbows, watching Jack with his jaw slack, breathing heavy.

 

When Jack wraps his lips around him, he has to draw his gaze away, closes his eyes to concentrate. He hasn’t done this in a long time, years, and he’d forgotten. He pulls up, swirls his tongue around the head of Bittle’s cock before sliding back down, setting a rhythm.

 

He brings his hand up to meet his mouth, and Bittle says, “Oh, Jesus.” Jack feels the muscles in his stomach relax as he falls back, and when he looks up again, Bittle has an arm thrown over his eyes. With the arm that Jack has across Bittle’s hips, he reaches for Bittle’s other hand. When Bittle twines their fingers together, Jack sucks hard, and Bittle’s hips jerk.

 

“Jack,” Bittle says, tugs at his hand a bit. “I’m gonna--”

 

Jack sucks hard again, tightens his grip just a bit, and Bittle comes with a groan. Jack swallows around him, waits, runs his tongue along Bittle one last time before he twitches, oversensitive.

 

He kisses at Bittle’s hip bone before pulling himself up, runs his free hand up Bittle’s side. Bittle’s hand is lax in his grip until it tightens again. “I--Jack--”

 

Jack meets Bittle’s mouth, sloppier and lazier than how they were kissing before, but still enough. Still good.

 

Bittle lets go of Jack’s hand to hold Jack’s face in both hands. He licks into his mouth and moans, must be able to taste himself on Jack’s tongue.

 

Jack presses his erection into Bittle’s hip, and Bittle groans again.

 

Bittle lets go of Jack’s face, and works his right hand between their bodies. He gets his hand in Jack’s pyjama pants and wraps his fingers around Jack. Jack pulls his mouth away, rests his forehead on Bittle’s shoulder, breathes heavily into him.

 

Jack’s already wet, leaking at the tip. When Bittle pulls his foreskin up on the upstroke, Jack moans. “Tell me what you like,” Bittle says.

 

“God, I--” Jack’s hips push forward into Bittle’s fist, and he says, “anything. I--it won’t take much.”

 

It doesn’t--after a few minutes of Bittle’s hand on him, Jack’s hips thrusting forward into the movement, he stills, bites at Bittle’s shoulder. His orgasm hits him harder than he expects, his toes curling, stomach clenching. “Shit,” he groans, coming into Bittle’s hand.

 

Bittle wipes his hand on the sheets beside them. Jack collapses onto him, and Bittle runs his hands up and down Jack’s back until his breathing evens out. His heartbeat is still racing in his chest when he rolls off Bittle and onto his back.

 

Jack’s eyes are closed, and he concentrates on the rise and fall of his chest, feels his heartbeat echoing down in his toes. He reaches blindly towards Bittle, and his hand meets Bittle’s forearm. He pulls him towards Jack, and he curls into Jack’s side. He runs his fingertips gently over Jack’s wrist, his forearm, back down again. He traces the lines in the palm of Jack’s hand, and Jack’s throat feels tight.

 

“I’m so fucking sorry I thought I could be okay without this.”

 

Bittle shifts, and Jack opens his eyes to see him propped up on his elbow, looking down at Jack with wide eyes. “Hey,” he says, and it’s quiet. “We’re here now.”

 

“Still,” Jack says, looking up at the ceiling. “It was so stupid to waste so much time.”

 

Bittle leans down, kisses at Jack’s shoulder before leaning his chin back on his hand. “We’re here now, though. And this ain’t bad.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

The next night, Jack drives Bittle back to the Haus.

 

“They’re going to know,” Bittle says.

 

Jack shrugs, reaches his right hand from the wheel to rest on the back of Bittle’s neck. “Are you okay with that?”

 

“I mean,” Bittle says, “They’re gonna ask. I don’t want to have to lie. I live with them.”

 

“Can I tell my parents?” Jack asks. “Just--I won’t tell people without asking you first, if you do the same? I hate asking you to hide, I hate that I can’t--”

 

“It’s fine,” Bittle says, reaches over to leave his hand on Jack’s thigh. “I don’t care what strangers think, what they do or don’t know. I care about you.”

 

“What if that stops being enough?”

 

“D’you think we could deal with that if we get there? You’ve made up all these fake problems, projected these things onto me, it’s barely been a day.”

 

When Jack looks over at him, he’s smiling.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says, looking back at the road. “That seems better.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

_if u break his tiny southern heart, im gna break ur fuckin ankles_

 

Jack smiles, replies to Lardo with _good i’ll deserve it. not planning on it, tho_

  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack gets permission to take Labor Day weekend off, and he picks Bittle up from the airport Thursday evening.

 

When they get to Jack’s apartment, Bittle drops his bag the second the elevator doors close, has Jack pressed into the back wall before either of them can hit the button for the third floor. They spend fifteen minutes in the elevator before it starts moving up, and Jack startles enough to hit the button for his floor before anyone else gets onboard.

 

The trip from the elevator to Jack’s condo is, likewise, longer than normal.

 

When Jack finally manages to get the key in the door, he opens it to Marguerite circling his feet.

 

“Goodness,” Bittle says, his voice high, before kneeling to pet her. She gets her front paws on him, licks at his face.

 

Bittle laughs, and Jack says, “Sorry, she’s excitable.”

 

“She’s precious,” Bittle says, sitting down.

 

“Should take her out,” Jack says. “Before..” Bittle smirks up at him, and Jack blushes. “Before it gets too late. Get over yourself,” he says, rolling his eyes.

 

“Yeah, you’d like that,” Bittle says, and Jack laughs.

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack is awake early the next morning. He’s curled around Bittle, their legs intertwined. Marguerite is looking up at them from the bottom of the bed and whining, mad that Bittle’s taken up the bed’s prime real estate. Jack extracts his limbs from Bittle, kisses his shoulder before gently getting out of bed. Bittle is drooling a bit. Jack leaves him to it.

 

He pulls on a pair of running shorts and slips into his flip flops before taking Marguerite outside. Once they’re back, he pours a cup of food into her bowl, gives her fresh water. He drinks a protein shake straight from the bottle as he waits for the coffee to finish. He hoists himself up onto the counter.

 

Bittle’s shoes are beside his by the door, his Samwell Hockey hoodie hung up by the door. He’s living out of a suitcase for the weekend, but Jack thinks he can convince him to leave most of his clothes here. Jack’s emptied a drawer and half the closet space.

 

Jack puts milk into one mug, two sugars and milk into another for Bittle, then heads back to bed. He places the mugs on the bedside table, then shucks his shorts before crawling back under the bedding.

 

When he wedges himself in behind Bittle again, he kisses at Bittle’s shoulder.

 

“Mhmm,’ Bitle hums. “Where’d you go?” His voice is scratchy, soft from sleep.

 

He rolls towards Jack, and Jack says, “I made coffee,” before kissing Bittle, closed lipped and smiling.

 

“Gimme,” Bittle says.

 

“The worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen,” Jack says, but he shifts to sit up against the headboard, and passes Bittle his mug.

 

Marguerite jumps up onto the foot of the bed, circles twice before settling. After a few minutes, Bittle is a bit more awake, and he leans to rest his head on Jack’s shoulder. “This is really nice,” Bittle says after a few minutes.

 

Jack looks down at him, the way his long eyelashes catch in the early morning light. He’s got a scatter of freckles from the summer sun that cover his nose and cheeks, like they’re fighting with the rest of his features to be the sweetest part of his face. Jack’s holding his coffee in his left hand, resting it on his thigh, and he runs his right hand over Bittle’s ear, gently cards his fingers through Bittle’s hair.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. He feels more at home than he ever has. “It is.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Jack steps onto the ice, and Sharpy smiles at him. “Jacky boy,” he says. “I got a good one. You’re gonna start dropping your gloves and racking up penalty minutes so that I can call you Jack in the Box.”

 

“He will not,” Dan says from across the ice, laughing.

 

“And ruin his pretty face?” Darth says, and Jack shoves at him.

 

“Whatever,” Jack says, laughing. “Stop making fun of my good looks, I’m your captain now, remember?”

 

“It’s gotten to his head already,” Darth says before patting him on the shoulder and skating over to Tremble.

 

Sharpy grins at him, all teeth. “You fuckin’ ready, Jazzy?” Sharpy hooks his arm over Jack’s shoulder.

 

“Yeah,” Jack says. “I am.”

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the entirety of this story was inspired by 'The House on Mango Street' by Sandra Cisneros: 
> 
> “Only trees and more trees and plenty of blue sky. And you could laugh, Sally. You could go to sleep and wake up and never have to think who likes and doesn’t like you. You could close your eyes and you wouldn’t have to worry what people said because you never belonged here anyway and nobody could make you sad and nobody would think you’re strange because you like to dream and dream. And no one could yell at you if they saw you out in the dark leaning against a car, leaning against somebody without someone thinking you are bad, without somebody saying it is wrong, without the whole world waiting for you to make a mistake when all you wanted, all you wanted, Sally, was to love and to love and to love and to love, and no one could call that crazy.”
> 
> also, if you still give a damn/enjoyed this at all, consider keeping your eyes peeled for a sequel to this. i can't say when it'll be finished, but i've got an outline, and a title, both of which are the most important parts, obviously. xo

**Author's Note:**

> //on [tumblr](http://www.bittyjack.tumblr.com)
> 
> ///[art](http://candycoloredink.tumblr.com/post/140667035825/bittyjack-i-drew-this-when-you-first-posted-of)


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